#there are more questions but those are the most pressing

[amorchai]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒.

this is a repost from my old blog. original post was 1,186 notes.

pairing(s): steve harrington x shy!reader

words: 1705

warnings/tags: best friends to lovers, mentions of food, shy!reader.

“stevie?” you ask into the empty air, tearing your eyes away from the view in steve’s passenger seat as you previously pondered silently. “mhm?” is all he mumbles back, to show he’s listening while scooping another spoonful of the chocolate ice cream from his tub.

you weren’t sure why you were having ice cream on a cold winter’s night, but steve had suggested it and you never tend to question steve’s random motives as such. your half-eaten raspberry tub rests on your lap, slightly melted from neglect during the reverie you coaxed yourself into. parked atop a hill overlooking the town below the moonlight.

you don’t continue at first, looking down to your knee which now bounces anxiously. and with the extra space of silence, steve looks up from his ice cream, eyes peeking beneath the strands of hair that poke his face.

sitting the tub into one cup holder, steve moves back against his seat, one hand beginning to drum the steering wheel aimlessly while he watches your body language. “you don’t like it? thought it was one of your favourites?” steve continues worriedly, and nods towards the dessert in your hands.

you shake your head, ushering it into the cup holder beside his with a very small, “no, no. i do… i’ll have it in a second.”

“okay.”

the car falls silent again, steve watches as you slump against your seat and lose yourself in the view again. however, steve can tell it isn’t the landscape you’re thinking of, but if only he could pinpoint exactly what you were thinking.

penny for your thoughts, steve thinks and hesitates upon saying. in the end leaving you be at first, instead reaching a hand over to your restless knee and it suddenly stops moving. steve squeezes it affectionately, a small message that he’s still listening as he turns down the radio ever so slightly.

“what was your first kiss like?” you splutter all of a sudden, voice quiet and a deep nervous inhale following. steve wasn’t expecting it, eyes blinking and eyebrows raising as he processes the question. he taps your knee once more before moving his hand back to his lap, and you immediately miss the warmth.

“eighth grade with vanessa johnson. i freaked out so bad i bit her lip and she never spoke to me again.”

with steve’s statement you giggle. of course he did just that. “you bit her?” you repeat, hand covering your mouth as more laughter falls from your lips, and steve joins you with an amused nod, “sure did.”

your hand falls from your mouth while you lean your head back to face the car roof, laughter slowly falling back down and steve can only watch you with the fondest smile. “do you bite every girl you kiss?”

“no. funnily enough it was an accident and she hated my guts for it,” steve responds to your teasing with another chuckle emitting his throat. your head tilts to the side, cheek pressed to your shoulder as you look over at him, his gaze intoxicating as he smiles so warmly towards you.

“i got much better, y’know?” steve smirks, ego boosting himself. “i know,” you reply without thinking and steve pulls a face, confusion and amusement packed into one before nudging your arm gently, “what do you mean you know?”

you laugh again, embarrassed and quietly when you reply, “high school girls locker room. steve harrington was the topic of conversation most days before gym class for the popular girls.” steve grimaces, unamused and worried about the fact that you had heard those conversations about steve’s kissing techniques.

“god, high school. don’t miss it a bit.”

you don’t reply. looking out the passenger door window and to the couple of cars upon that side, distractedly staring as you sigh sadly. and steve’s not an idiot. he’s your best friend and also someone who’s been infatuated with you for years, he can tell what you’re thinking this time.

“it’ll happen, you just need to find the right person.”

your first kiss. still in your twenties without having ever kissed someone, while others around you were now in serious relationships.

you close your eyes and sigh at steve’s words. that’s the problem; you have always had the right person but you’re too terrified to make the first move. the unbearable fear that steve wouldn’t like you back was excruciating while he dated several girls during your friendship that you hoped he would be brave enough to do something instead.

maybe he just wasn’t interested in you that way. since he had no problem asking all those other girls out, as far as you can tell.

“i have an idea.”

steve’s quiet and patient to match your timid voice, you can usually get more shy in conversations you’re scared of and he’s willing to hear you out. but when is he never. “yeah?” is all he asks, practically a whisper.

your words get lodged in your throat, how are you supposed to ask your best friend to kiss you? that’s not easy. what if he hates you after? what if he thinks you’re impatient? or what if it ruins your friendship?

you wave yourself off, cringing on yourself and about to change the subject completely while leaning a hand down for your tub of ice cream but steve grips your hand and bends his head down to meet your gaze.

“hey, hey, hey. you can tell me your idea. i won’t judge you.”

“i don’t know, steve, i—” steve turns, his body facing yours while he grips your other free hand and you follow his movements to face him more clearer. the car light was on while you previously ate and it illuminated the tanned skin upon his face, showing off the sweet dark freckles spotted across his cheek and neck. 

“i know who i want to be my first kiss.”

your forehead falls into you and steve’s held hands, embarrassed while a small ‘o’ shape forms on steve’s mouth as he thinks. “oh,” is all steve says, a pang of hurt sprawling across his chest rapidly at the realisation of... someone. someone.

before you can lift your head to ramble an apology about how stupid it is, steve beats you to it by holding onto his pride and storing away his sadness. “any guy would be so lucky to have you, yeah? so lucky, baby. and if you know who you want to be your first kiss, i say go for it.”

steve’s ready to continue, busy trying to seem like he’s okay with this idea and not noticing that you lift your head back up to look at him properly. he doesn’t notice the way you squeeze his gripping hands or giggle at his rushed voice, he doesn’t notice anything until you say, “steve.”

it’s quiet. your voice barely audible but steve thanks his good hearing because he immediately cuts himself off to listen to you. your faces are close, his pupils rapidly moving when they scan over your features as if he’s figuring out what you’re trying to say.

“what, baby?”

“steve.” you say again, tone knowing and desperate and almost a hint of feeling shameful and steve’s eyes widen when yours fleet to his lips for the shortest second. this can’t be real, steve thinks. there’s no way.

you huff when he still sits still, hands keep holding yours tightly, “don’t make me say it,” you whine and steve chuckles. he tilts his head down, forehead pressed against yours as he replies, “oh, but i want you to say it. please say it.”

you can feel the warmth spread to your face as another shy whine threatens to break your throat, but just as you move your head in an attempt to tuck it into his neck, steve’s hands are shuffling from yours so he’s cupping your face.

“it’s okay, baby. it’s okay. i can do it, i’ll gladly do it. if you want me to?” his thumbs swipe your skin so delicately and his eyes are gazing with such a genuine stare that you feel you might crumble. with a nod, there’s a strangled sentence you let out, “y-yes. i do, stevie.”

he chuckles once more, a mixture of how cute he thinks you are but also in disbelief that he’s about to kiss you.

steve’s so slow, head tilting as he leans forward so his nose runs across your skin and you can feel the ghost of his lips closer and closer. in a warm daze, you whisper into the cold car when steve’s lips touch the corner of yours, “don’t bite me.”

you feel the curve of his smile while his nose drags down your face so he’s tucked under your jaw, both of your chests heaving with laughter. your hands reach up so they are holding onto his wrists, and he looks back up at your cupped face, “no promises, you’ll probably taste of raspberry ice cream.”

this time steve’s patience isn’t as strong, leaning forward to crash his lips against yours in what you believe will be most breath-taking kiss you could ever receive. corners of both your lips threaten to smile as you feel the sparks within your chest and squeeze the skin of his wrists.

he tastes of chocolate from his ice cream and the coffee he had earlier on and you go light-headed at the thought, never wanting to pull away. he’s so sweet and slow, lips guiding yours against his so tenderly that you pray to god it won’t be the last steve harrington kiss you receive.

you both reluctantly pull away, lungs begging to be filled with air but steve only pulls away for a moment before pecking your lips again. your mind feels foggy from the gesture that you almost don’t notice the nip to your bottom lip as steve pulls away.

you gasp mockingly, opening your eyes with steve’s smug smirk, turning his palms from your face so he can hold yours again, resting them against your lap. “i was right,” steve says, leaning forward when you dip your head to contain your happiness.

“you taste like raspberries,” steve murmurs just as happily against your lips.

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amorchai © ─ all rights reserved. no reposting/translating/copying will be tolerated.

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

In the spirit of the new year coming upon us, I'd like to request MC sharing the tradition of a New years kiss with their crush (Idia, Sebek, Malleus, Jack, and Azul)

Remember to take it easy, btw! Happy holidays and happy new year!

(happy new year! only a week late)

Azul Ashengrotto:

You felt lucky that you even managed to pull Azul away for a private moment together. New Years had proven a busy day for a business man, and each year it seemed the specials he thought up drew in larger and larger crowds. He had employees to keep an eye on things but he hardly trusted things he couldn’t see and touch himself, meaning he had been on the floor the entire night while you tried to enjoy the party with friends. You were not going to be denied your kiss even if Azul lost a singular dollar due and your beckoning was like a siren’s call, especially knowing what midnight might bring. The following day would be even busier for him so Azul knows it’s better to indulge you, lips gliding against yours as the fireworks pop and crackle loudly outside. Perhaps he’d never admit that he did miss you even while making money to keep you both comfortable, but getting to start off this new year with you at his side was certainly priceless.

Idia Shroud:

This was an ultra-important missable achievement, if he failed now he may never get another chance. Idia thinks he’s locked in, with all his stat-raising items on him, though he wished there was one that would increase his confidence more. He sees the countdown begin and his body tenses, your body leaning against his as you admire the perfect camera angles the reporter is getting. You looked to him with a smile so angelic it could’ve made him burst into flames but before that, before you could even say ‘Happy New Year!’ as you intended, he rushed to press his lips against yours. He might’ve been a little early on the countdown but it didn’t seem to bother you, who only giggled into the kiss as your new year started off perfectly.

Jack Howl:

It just made sense to him to spend the new year together. You were his person which meant he wanted to spend every single day together with you, and starting his year by your side would be the ideal. He’s not thinking of the kiss tradition, thinking of the goals he wants to strive toward and questioning you about your own. It’s not until you see others kissing around you that the idea is sparked, sending him a sly smile as he nervously avoided looking at the other couples. You give him the perfect distraction by placing a hand on his cheek, turning him to face you and gently pressing your lips to his to truly start the new year off in the best way possible.

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus thought human traditions were always a little silly, this one especially so. Wouldn’t it get tiring celebrating so many different new years? How did they always manage to find something new to promise themselves? Shouldn’t most goals be continuous? You’re more than happy to address his questions as you loved when he showed an interest, specifically in you. You teased him about your own personal goals, telling him you’d let him know as soon as the year rolled over, while Malleus smirked at your response. He had come up with his own resolution, and as the countdown began, he solidified the idea in his head to the point of no return. To start the year off right he held your face in his, stealing your full attention and having you all to himself as he kissed you.

Sebek Zigvolt:

Sebek had been on edge since the festivities began, hardly allowing himself to be distracted from his duties. You couldn’t blame him for keeping a close eye on those who drifted close to their future king, knowing that an assassin could strike in the blink of an eye. You do manage to convince him to come with you to a lovely spot where the fireworks would burst in the sky, practically above your heads, by saying Silver had promised to stick to Malleus like glue until Sebek returned; batting your eyes at him continued to work wonders for you as well. You have his full attention as you excitedly tell him about all your experiences at the festival below, nodding his head along as his fingers laced with yours. He kissed your hand first, wishing to share a few promises for the future, but the fireworks were far too loud, so a gentle kiss on the lips would have to suffice for now.

[ahgasegotarmy116]

Desiring Defiance | Kim Taehyung | One Shot | Teaser

Summary: Taehyung as a Mafia Lord takes care of his own, but when his priority becomes you, imagine his surprise...and delight when he figures out you want nothing to do with him. Pairing: f!reader x Mafia Lord Taehyung (Contract Marriage) (Taehyung's pov) Word Count: TBD Warnings: Smut, Explicit Language, Weapons, Drugs, Violence etc. (I haven't finished it so I'll add more warnings when the full fic comes out) A/N: I wanted to get this out to see if there's any interest in this story since I usually write fics for Jungkook but I'll be writing it regardless. Just wanted to have an opportunity to get a taglist going if possible p.s. This is my first Mafia fic and it's barely edited so pls have mercy on me 🥲 Requested by and anon 💜

"I've scheduled the jet for your birthday and have alerted the local staff to be ready for your arrival" my assistant relays, my men and I having a leisurely meeting and therefore feeling comfortable sharing in front of them since they're usually a part of those plans.

"You should book this new stripper I found while we're there. I've heard that she leaves her patrons thoroughly…satisfied" one of them says, wiping his nose off after inhaling a line of a white powder that we all know leads to no good.

I wave him off, knowing if I let him run his mouth the suggestions will go from crude to vulgar if left unchecked.

"No stripper?" one of the guys chimes in, feeling as though he got a toy he was entitled to taken away from him.

"You guys aren't coming this year" I say after telling my assistant we'll discuss this matter later.

"What do you mean we're not coming?" another chimes in, looking utterly betrayed. "I have other plans in mind this year" I inform, loosening my tie, it suddenly feeling a little too tight.

"Who are you going with if not us?" another asks, the notion completely ridiculous from their self centered viewpoint.

"My wife" I say, pulling out my phone to check her location, seeing that she's still at the office when she was supposed to be home an hour ago making me sigh and stand up, the group raising to their feet as a sign respect.

"You mean the woman you paid to marry you?" one of them mumbles, making a bold statement leaving me chuckling darkly while shaking my head, my pace slow but deliberate as I walk up to him, resting my hand on his shoulder before drawing my gun seconds later and placing the barrel against his temple.

The cold steel on his skin makes him shudder, the implications of what just one single pull of it's trigger could do to his life. His very well being dancing in the palm of my hand, oh so tempting to snuff out but I show some restraint and press the gun a little harder against his temple making him lean over, trying to get away from the no doubt painful pressure.

All the rest of my men are frozen in place, knowing better than to intervene, knowing that any sign of fear or questioning of my judgement could result in the intent to kill being pointed towards them.

"I suggest you watch your fucking mouth when you talk about my wife" I growl and he nods, apologizing profusely, sinking further and further down onto the floor, practically shaking with fear and when I cock the gun I can see the way his body tenses up in restraint, holding back the wince he no doubt wants to let out.

I stand there for a while, debating whether or not I should make an example out of him in the most extreme way possible.

I ultimately decide to withdraw my gun, placing it back on my person, fixing my suit jacket and running my fingers through my hair, letting out a sigh.

"Take him out back" I say and turn to walk away, leaving his pleas for mercy to fall of deaf ears.

He should know better. They all should know better than to question me or my judgement. Leaving me turning back to address the rest of the group once the guilty party is taken away, his wails for mercy soon being exchanged for wails of pain, muffled by the door now separating us.

"My business with my wife is none of any of your concern. Plus, it's not like many of you remember the reason we go abroad at the end of the year anyways, so there's no need for you to be included" I say and they all turn their eyes down disappointed but not surprised that this was cemented as a result of one man's sin.

"Make sure there aren't any loose ends I need to tie up while I'm gone…or when I get back" I say giving a pointed look to all of them, resulting in a unanimous sound of intent to do as they're told.

"Clean up my office. I don't want to see a single crumb or anything out of place when I get back" I say looking at one man in particular that has been crunching on a bag of chips since I walked in leaving him closing and setting it aside.

I leave with a unison farewell from all as I head to my car that's been pulled around front, waiting for me.

"Where to sir?" my driver Andrew asks once I get in the back seat, the only one I let speak freely in front of me. "My wife's office" I say leaving him humming. "You don't approve?" I ask, cocking my brow at him through the rear view mirror but he finds no fear in it.

"She's requested not to be disturbed until she's called for a ride home" he relays leaving me sighing, debating on whether or not I should respect her wishes. She's always so stubborn when it comes to work and does everything she can to keep my claws from sinking into it.

I don't feel like listening tonight though, especially not after what happened.

I want to see her. I need to see her.

"Sir?" he asks, trying to see if I've changed my mind given the new information. "My wife's office" I repeat and sit back, knowing I'm making the wrong choice but I won't let anyone keep me from getting what I want.

Not even her.

~~~~

Please let me know what you think and comment or click the link to join the taglist <3

Taglist: @jkslipppiercing @trina864 @kaitieskidmore97 @goddesofimortality @coolbluedude @coralmusicblaze @whoa-jo @00frenchfries00 @pastelpinkjoon @joonwater Taglist continued in the comments 💜

[nartothelar]

Soul eater Au question: If the Soul Train is so vital, are the Depot Agents also trained to stop kishin, or is it just the bosses and the agents do crowd control/ protection or something?

Some of the depot agents are meisters and weapons but a majority of them are regular train staff since the Death Train acts as a passenger train on most days! And those that are fighters are nowhere near the skill level of ingo and emmet, who both have enough skill and power to be death scythes themselves.

The Death Train runs in and outside of death city, with the outside being especially dangerous; it’s too much of a risk to have it run without someone extremely capable to protect it/avoid it from being jacked. Without Ingo and Emmet both, and with most of Deaths forces focusing on more pressing matters with the Kishin’s revival, the train just isn’t safe enough to run :(

[angelsfat3]

ⓘㅤ 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋. ⠀⠀( 崇拜我的罪恶，先生。)

𝓢ummary “ ✉. In a time when women were burned for using reason and men were supposed to follow the words of God, a demon took possession of a beautiful young man to teach a lost priest, to love.

⠀،،⠀Genre. ’ Sci-fi, drama, religious au.

( 𝒄/𝒘. )───Repression, forbidden fruit(?), teasing, tension.

The confessional was nearly dark, illuminated only by the faint flicker of a candle on the nearby altar. You, the priest, sat on the small bench, trying to steady the tremor in your hands as you heard footsteps approaching.

You knew who it was even before he knelt on the other side of the screen.

“Father [...], the world has always been this way, ever since Adam and Eve tasted the forbidden fruit,” Ni-ki began, his tone not just penitent but laced with something darker, something far more intimate. “We were born with sin inside us… as if it were part of our flesh.”

You knew what his words meant, what he was truly trying to say.

You bit your tongue for a moment, tasting the danger in his confession. You responded carefully, your words measured to avoid suspicion but firm like a warning.

“Sin always lies in wait, Ni-ki,” you said with a calmness that barely masked your own turmoil. “But don’t forget that redemption exists, even for the most tormented hearts.”

What you didn’t say was that those very words had failed you on so many nights when the flesh spoke louder than your faith, when your spirit surrendered to Ni-ki.

From the other side, Ni-ki let out a short, almost imperceptible sigh, but to you, it sounded like a scream.

A heavy silence settled between you. You could feel his breath on the other side of the screen, and you knew he was wrestling with himself. Finally, his voice broke the stillness, trembling and barely audible:

“What if… what if sin doesn’t just lie in wait but calls to me? What if my soul leans toward it, as if I can’t resist?”

Heat rose to your face, and you gripped your knees tightly to maintain your composure. You knew him too well.

You knew he wasn’t just talking about sin in the abstract; he was talking about you, about what you’d shared in those fleeting moments where the world seemed to vanish.

“Ni-ki, sin always waits for us, but our will must be stronger than the call of anything that leads us astray,” you said, your voice steadier than your heart.

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either—not when you yourself had strayed so many times toward him, toward his lips, toward the abyss of his body.

“Well, we are human, and… the flesh is weak, Ni-ki,” you said, the weight of your own words almost unbearable. “But we must not give in. Each time we fall, we drift further from the grace that has been granted to us.”

“And what if my will isn’t enough?” Ni-ki pressed, his breathing growing heavier, as if your words hurt him as much as they hurt you. “What if there’s no hope for those who have already fallen?”

The question struck you like a dagger. You knew he wanted you to tell him yes, that there was hope, that what you shared wasn’t condemned. But you couldn’t say that—not here, not ever.

The confessional turned into an oven, the air so thick it was nearly impossible to breathe. Your hands clenched into fists on your knees as you fought the tremor in your chest.

Finally, you leaned closer to the screen, lowering your voice even further.

“Ni-ki… none of us are worthy, but don’t forget that God’s mercy is infinite. No matter how far you think you’ve fallen, there is always redemption… but only if we are willing to let go of what drags us into the abyss.”

Your words felt hollow, even to you. You knew they spoke of him, of the two of you, of the secret you shared that, if discovered, could condemn you both.

Ni-ki didn’t respond immediately, but the silence that followed wasn’t one of repentance. It was one of restrained desire, of something no prayer or penance could erase.

The silence was unbearable. You could imagine his expression on the other side—the mix of pain and frustration you’d seen so many times in his dark eyes.

“And what about you, Father?” he finally whispered, his voice sharp enough to leave you breathless. “Can you let it go?”

The question hung in the air, both an accusation and a plea. You felt your lips move, but no words came out.

You didn’t have an answer because you knew, despite the guilt eating away at you, despite every moment with him being a reminder of the risk you were taking, you couldn’t imagine a world where you didn’t seek him out.

But you couldn’t say that.

“Pray, Ni-ki,” was all you could manage, your voice breaking at the end. “Pray that we both find the strength we need.”

Finally, you heard his voice again, barely a murmur.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned… and I will sin again.”

A chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t see him, but you knew his eyes were fixed on the screen, searching for yours through the thin barrier.

You closed your eyes and clutched the crucifix hanging from your neck, trying to remember why you had chosen this path.

You heard him stand, his steps retreating slowly, but you didn’t dare to look. You remained there, in the dim light, the unspoken words weighing like chains around your heart.

You knew that when the day ended and the shadows once again blanketed the village, you would seek him out. And that would be your true sin.

The echo of Ni-ki’s footsteps should have faded, but the silence that remained was unsettling, as though something unseen had filled the space.

You stayed seated on the bench of the confessional, your trembling hands clasped tightly in front of you, searching for solace in the words of your own prayer.

Then, a sharp sound shattered the moment. The door on your side of the confessional creaked open. You looked up, your heart stalling for an instant.

Ni-ki stood there, framed in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow of the candles. His dark eyes bore into yours—not with the softness or the pain you had grown used to seeing in him.

This time, there was something else, something that made your skin crawl.

He remained silent, his lips slightly parted, as if the words refused to leave. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, as though caught between the urge to move forward and the fear of crossing a line from which there was no return.

But what unsettled you most was what you saw in his eyes: a dark void, a need that didn’t seem human.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You were frozen.

You could only stare, paralyzed by the intensity of his presence. He was Ni-ki, and yet he wasn’t. The gentle warmth that always lowered your guard now seemed overshadowed by a darkness that made him look… different. Unreal.

Finally, you drew in a breath, trying to regain your composure.

“Ni-ki, what are you doing?” you asked, though the question came out as little more than a whisper.

He didn’t respond. He stepped into the confessional, and his shadow seemed to stretch, swallowing the space between you. There was no fear in his gaze, but neither was there comfort. It was as though he was about to consume you with his eyes.

“You… look different,” you continued, your hands gripping the edge of the bench to steady yourself. “What is it that you need?”

His reply was barely audible, an echo that seemed to come from some deep corner of his being:

“You.”

Your chest tightened, and the air seemed to abandon you entirely. But there was something in the way he said it—something not like the restrained passion you knew. It was something else, something that chilled you to the bone.

You closed your eyes and began murmuring a prayer, the words spilling from your lips in desperation.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

Ni-ki took another step closer, and the heat in the small cabin became suffocating. You could feel his gaze on you, intense and heavy, as if he sought to strip more than just your resolve.

“Hallowed be thy name…” you continued, your hands now trembling uncontrollably. “Deliver us from evil…”

Ni-ki’s voice, softer yet laden with that inhuman intensity, cut through your prayer.

“Do you think that will save you from me?”

Your eyes snapped open, and you saw him so close you could barely breathe.

Ni-ki’s face was mere inches from yours, but his expression was that of someone caught between suffering and ecstasy.

He was real, and he was here to claim you.

Your breaths came shallow, barely enough to keep you conscious as Ni-ki’s gaze pierced through you. His eyes, as dark as the deepest night, glimmered with something you couldn’t name—something that made the air feel heavier, as if reality itself bent to his will.

Ni-ki raised a hand slowly, his fingers brushing the wood of the confessional as though savoring every grain. His voice, low but filled with a power that didn’t seem human, broke the silence.

"You cannot pray against what is already within you, Father."

The words struck like a weight on your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

This place, sanctified by so many prayers and penances, now felt like a battleground where the sacred and the profane faced each other head-on.

"Ni-ki, you don't know what you're saying," you murmured, though even you doubted your own words. Your voice trembled, unable to hide the fear creeping into your heart.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression almost... curious. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.

"Don’t I?" he replied, taking another step closer, so near now you could feel his warm breath against your skin. "Or is it you who doesn’t understand what we are?"

The word we echoed in your mind, an unrelenting whisper that refused to fade.

You shook your head, trying to hold onto reality, to what you knew to be true. But even as you did, you felt your conviction crumbling like a sandcastle under an unstoppable wave.

"This isn’t real," you insisted, though the tremor in your voice betrayed your growing despair. "Ni-ki, you... you’re not this."

His smile widened, and a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes, a spark that made you instinctively retreat against the pew.

"Not this?" he asked, almost amused. "Then what am I, Father? The frightened boy who sought comfort in your words? Or the man who has patiently waited for you to stop pretending?"

The intensity of his gaze made you look away, but you couldn’t escape the weight of his presence, which seemed to fill every corner of the confessional. It was as if he were absorbing the light itself, leaving only shadows in his wake.

You tried praying again, your lips moving quickly as you muttered.

"Deliver us from evil, amen. Deliver us from evil..."

But Ni-ki leaned closer, stopping you with a hand that lightly touched your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. His fingers were warm, but his touch sent a chill down your spine.

"Stop fighting," he whispered, his voice so soft it felt like a caress. "The evil isn’t outside of you, Father. It’s here. With me."

Your heart pounded in your chest, every beat reverberating in your ears as you tried to pull away from him. But you couldn’t.

Not because you lacked the strength, but because something in his gaze held you still, as if you were caught under a spell.

"Ni-ki, please..." you managed to say, though your voice broke into a whisper.

He leaned even closer, his lips just a breath away from yours.

"Please what?" he asked, his tone dripping with a mix of mockery and something darker, something that sent shivers down to your very bones. "Please stop? Or please stay and make me yours?"

The tension was unbearable, and you felt your will falter. Deep down, you knew you were on the brink of something from which there was no return, something that would challenge not just your faith but everything you believed yourself to be.

And then, Ni-ki smiled—that same smile that now seemed to belong to someone—or something—entirely different.

"Choose, Father," he murmured, his voice soft, yet the words thundered in your mind. "But remember... you can’t save us both."

The silence that followed was suffocating, laden with a palpable tension that seemed to freeze the air between you. Ni-ki didn’t look away, his smile cutting into you like a blade.

His hand remained on your chin, holding you with a gentleness that only made the situation more unbearable. You could feel the warmth of his skin, but the touch burned as if marked by something unholy.

"Why do you tremble, Father?" he whispered, leaning even closer. His breath brushed against your lips, and his dark gaze glimmered with a mix of challenge and... delight? "You shouldn’t fear me. After all, you’re the man of God, aren’t you?"

"You cannot pray against what is already within you, Father."

The words struck like a weight on your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

This place, sanctified by so many prayers and penances, now felt like a battleground where the sacred and the profane faced each other head-on.

"Ni-ki, you don't know what you're saying," you murmured, though even you doubted your own words. Your voice trembled, unable to hide the fear creeping into your heart.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression almost... curious. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.

"Don’t I?" he replied, taking another step closer, so near now you could feel his warm breath against your skin. "Or is it you who doesn’t understand what we are?"

The word we echoed in your mind, an unrelenting whisper that refused to fade.

You shook your head, trying to hold onto reality, to what you knew to be true. But even as you did, you felt your conviction crumbling like a sandcastle under an unstoppable wave.

"This isn’t real," you insisted, though the tremor in your voice betrayed your growing despair. "Ni-ki, you... you’re not this."

His smile widened, and a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes, a spark that made you instinctively retreat against the pew.

"Not this?" he asked, almost amused. "Then what am I, Father? The frightened boy who sought comfort in your words? Or the man who has patiently waited for you to stop pretending?"

The intensity of his gaze made you look away, but you couldn’t escape the weight of his presence, which seemed to fill every corner of the confessional. It was as if he were absorbing the light itself, leaving only shadows in his wake.

You tried praying again, your lips moving quickly as you muttered.

"Deliver us from evil, amen. Deliver us from evil..."

But Ni-ki leaned closer, stopping you with a hand that lightly touched your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. His fingers were warm, but his touch sent a chill down your spine.

"Stop fighting," he whispered, his voice so soft it felt like a caress. "The evil isn’t outside of you, Father. It’s here. With me."

Your heart pounded in your chest, every beat reverberating in your ears as you tried to pull away from him. But you couldn’t.

Not because you lacked the strength, but because something in his gaze held you still, as if you were caught under a spell.

"Ni-ki, please..." you managed to say, though your voice broke into a whisper.

He leaned even closer, his lips just a breath away from yours.

"Please what?" he asked, his tone dripping with a mix of mockery and something darker, something that sent shivers down to your very bones. "Please stop? Or please stay and make me yours?"

The tension was unbearable, and you felt your will falter. Deep down, you knew you were on the brink of something from which there was no return, something that would challenge not just your faith but everything you believed yourself to be.

And then, Ni-ki smiled—that same smile that now seemed to belong to someone—or something—entirely different.

"Choose, Father," he murmured, his voice soft, yet the words thundered in your mind. "But remember... you can’t save us both."

The silence that followed was suffocating, laden with a palpable tension that seemed to freeze the air between you. Ni-ki didn’t look away, his smile cutting into you like a blade.

His hand remained on your chin, holding you with a gentleness that only made the situation more unbearable. You could feel the warmth of his skin, but the touch burned as if marked by something unholy.

"Why do you tremble, Father?" he whispered, leaning even closer. His breath brushed against your lips, and his dark gaze glimmered with a mix of challenge and... delight? "You shouldn’t fear me. After all, you’re the man of God, aren’t you?"

You tried to speak, but the words died in your throat. You were paralyzed, caught between the urge to push him away and the unknown abyss his closeness threatened to drag you into. Ni-ki noticed, and his smile widened, malicious and taunting.

"You know," he continued, his voice low and seductive, every word falling over you like drops of venom, "I’ve always wondered if your prayers were as sincere as you claimed. Now I see they’re not. Not when you tremble like this... with me so close."

He released your chin slowly, but he didn’t move away. His hand trailed downward, grazing the collar of your cassock, his fingers toying with the edge of the fabric, as if tempted to tear it away.

His gaze never left yours, and every movement he made was laced with a clear intention: to make you fall.

"Young lamb of God... this has to stop," you finally managed to say, though your voice was barely a whisper. Your words, however, only seemed to amuse him further.

"Stop?" he repeated, tilting his head with feigned confusion. "Why should I? Isn’t this what you wanted with me?"

The audacity in his tone hit you like a punch. You stared at him with a mix of disbelief and horror, but he was unfazed. He took another step closer, closing the distance between you until there was no space left to breathe.

"Don’t say you didn’t want this, Father." His voice dropped lower, a whisper dripping with insinuation. "I’ve seen how you run your fingers over your lips after they brush against mine... Always thinking no one noticed. But I did. I always did."

Your mind filled with fleeting images—of all the times you’d allowed your gaze to linger on him too long, of all the nights you’d battled thoughts that had no place in the life of a priest.

Ni-ki was tearing through every layer of your defenses, exposing you without mercy.

He leaned in until his face was level with yours, his dark eyes glinting with something deeper, something more terrifying.

"Tell me, Father," he asked, his tone mocking, "how many times have you prayed to be freed from me? How many times have you begged your God to strip this ‘sin’ away from you?"

His fingers, playful yet deliberate, trailed down to your chest, brushing against the cross hanging from your neck.

"You know what I think?" he continued, leaning even closer, his lips grazing the skin of your ear. "I think not even He can save you from me."

Your body reacted before your mind did. You pulled away abruptly, rising from the pew and stumbling back a few steps. But even then, the image of Ni-ki standing there with that wicked smile haunted you.

He didn’t move, but his gaze followed you—intense, inescapable.

"Where are you going, Father?" he asked, his tone feigning innocence, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his true game. "To hide behind your office again?"

Desperation overtook you, and you began murmuring a prayer, the words tumbling clumsily from your lips.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, I beg you for your son...”

Ni-ki laughed—a low, dark sound that echoed through the space like a sinister refrain.

“You really think that will work?” he asked, openly mocking you. “Pray all you want, but you know you can’t resist this. You can’t resist me.”

His confidence, his audacity, cut through you like a twisted blade. You wanted to scream, to cry for help, but there was no one else. No one who could understand what was happening—not even you.

His eyes, dark and searing, were locked on yours. There was something in his gaze you couldn’t fully decipher—something between desperation and defiance, as though he were on the verge of breaking something inside himself... or inside you.

“What will you do now, Father?” he asked, his tone barely a whisper yet powerful enough to drown out the prayers you were trying to recite. “Will you cast me out? Or will you fall to your knees before me, as you’ve done so many times in your mind?”

Your breathing was erratic, your hands trembling as you clung to the rosary like a lifeline.

But Ni-ki offered no reprieve. His face was now just a breath away from yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with your own.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your lips moved without purpose. “Ni-ki, this... this isn’t right,” you managed to say, though your voice was barely audible, a broken echo of your feeble resistance.

He tilted his head, and the smile on his lips softened, though his eyes still burned with an intensity that stripped away every defense you had.

“Not right?” he repeated, his tone laced with mockery but tinged with something deeper, something painfully intimate. “Then look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want me. Tell me you don’t desire me anymore, and I’ll leave.”

His words pierced you like a knife because you knew you couldn’t say them. Not without lying. Not without betraying the truth you buried deep inside yourself. You tried to look away, but his hand rose, warm and firm, cradling your face with a tenderness that starkly contrasted the storm of emotions he’d unleashed.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice deeper, more commanding.

Your heart pounded fiercely, each beat reverberating in your ears like a war drum. The space around you seemed to collapse, until all that existed was him—his face, his eyes, the overwhelming intensity of his presence that engulfed you like a tidal wave.

“Say it,” he whispered, demanding, his thumb grazing your cheek softly as his eyes flicked to your lips. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because in that moment, the truth became unbearably clear. Ni-ki wasn’t just your temptation—he was your surrender.

And then it happened.

He leaned in, closing the remaining distance between you in an instant. His lips crashed against yours—firm, insistent, brimming with an intensity that could no longer be ignored.

It was a deep, desperate kiss, laden with everything both of you had suppressed for far too long.

Your mind screamed in protest, reminding you of who you were, where you were, what this meant. But your body—treacherous, rebellious—did not resist. Your lips moved against his, responding with the same desperation, as if you were both drowning, and this was the only air you could share.

The taste of him—somewhere between the bitterness of the forbidden and the sweetness of the inevitable—imprinted itself on you. Your hands, which had initially pushed against him, betrayed you by clutching his shirt, pulling him closer.

His hand on your face slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place, while his body pressed into yours, erasing every inch of space between you.

The world seemed to stop.

The confessional, the church, even the cross hanging above you vanished, eclipsed by the sheer intensity of the moment. This kiss wasn’t just an act of passion; it was a battle—a war between who you were and what he made you feel.

Ni-ki let out a low sound, almost a stifled groan, and his body pressed harder against yours, making it clear this was not a fleeting lapse in judgment. It was a cry, a desperate act born of something deeper than either of you could admit aloud.

When he finally pulled back—barely an inch—the spell broke, leaving you both gasping, your breaths mingling in the charged air. His gaze bore into yours, the darkness in his eyes more intense than ever.

“I knew it,” he murmured, his voice rough, laced with a dangerous satisfaction. “You couldn’t even stop yourself.”

His words left you paralyzed, unable to respond as your thoughts spiraled. But Ni-ki didn’t wait for an answer. With one final look, heavy with unspoken promises, he leaned in again, brushing his lips against yours in a gesture almost tender.

“This isn’t over, love.” he whispered before stepping back slowly, his smile returning with a victorious edge. “This is only the beginning.”

And with those words, he left the confessional, leaving you alone, trapped in a silence that no longer felt sacred, your lips still burning from his touch and your soul staring into the abyss he had opened within you.

The wood clicked softly as you slid the small door shut, sealing yourself off from the rest of the world. The confined space, once a refuge for penitence and absolution, now felt charged with something entirely different. Your breaths came quick and uneven, as though the air itself refused to fill your lungs.

Your mind was chaos.

Images of Ni-ki—his dark gaze, his malicious smile, the heat of his touch, and, most vividly, the memory of his lips on yours and his tongue invading your mouth—were seared into your consciousness like a burning brand.

Every time you tried to push those thoughts away, they came rushing back, stronger, dragging you into the moment you had just shared.

Your hands trembled as you attempted to entwine your fingers with the rosary still hanging around your neck, searching for an anchor, a lifeline to pull you from this inner storm. But instead of solace, you found an insatiable hunger, a need that consumed you from within.

You closed your eyes, leaning your back against the wooden confessional as if the cold surface could extinguish the fire raging beneath your skin. But it didn’t.

The heat coursed through your chest, your throat, every part of you, an unstoppable tide that left no room for reason.

Your hands, which had sought refuge in the rosary, slowly fell, almost as if guided by some force outside your control. They grazed your neck, where the ghost of Ni-ki’s fingers still lingered, before trailing down to your chest, tracing the fabric of your cassock. Your breathing quickened as your fingers pressed lightly against the material, as though trying to erase the weight of his touch—or perhaps summon it again.

Guilt began to rise, but it was quickly drowned out by a wave of desire you couldn’t contain. The echo of Ni-ki’s words resonated in your mind, every syllable a spark that fed the fire within you.

“You can’t escape me.”

A shiver ran through your body at the memory of how he had said it, how his lips had formed those words while his gaze devoured you.

Your hands continued their journey, sliding past your waist, your fingers tracing lines that burned even through the cloth. It was as if the memory of him was etched into every fiber of your being, impossible to tear away.

It was a matter of seconds before you slipped one of your hands inside your pants and underwear, caressing and squeezing your manhood. At that moment you just wanted to break free, as you always did when you were alone in your office or room.

At that moment, the confessional ceased to be a holy place. Its sanctity had been lost the instant you allowed yourself to succumb to the desire Ni-ki had ignited. Your lips, still swollen from the kiss, parted with a soft sigh as your free hand clutched at your cassock, as if the simple gesture could release some of the pressure consuming you.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against the wall of the confessional, your ragged breaths filling the small space. It was a struggle, a battle between what you knew was right and what your body craved with terrifying intensity.

“This is a sin...”

You knew it, but the knowledge wasn’t enough to stop you. The weight of your faith, which had always been your guide, now felt like an impossible burden to bear. And deep within your soul, you recognized the truth you had been trying to deny for so long.

You didn’t want to stop.

Your voice escaped in a barely audible whisper, a mixture of plea and despair.

“God, forgive me... for I am being dragged down by Satan’s lust...”

But even as you spoke those words, your hands continued to move, one clutching at the fabric of your cassock while the other traced your body with an intensity you had never allowed yourself before. In that moment, there was no room for regret—only for the raw, overwhelming desire Ni-ki had left behind, like an indelible mark etched into your very being.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ݁⠀⠀،،⠀⠀메모 ! ㅤ⸻ㅤ I know almost nothing about the church or religion itself, so I made up most of the prayers...

+ New stories on the way, I promise. 🙂‍↕️︐⠀📍

⠀𝒊. ⠀─⠀ All credits to @angelsfat3 / @foschiamara⠀𝄒

. . . ₍⠀아이디어 !ㅤ⸻ㅤI'm very short of ideas lately, so feel free to leave me any requests! <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>⠀₎⠀ ִֶָ

˖⠀⠀ ݁⠀©⠀،،⠀If you liked it you can like, follow me or reblog!!

[bunni-v1]

sunday x m reader who wont shut up while hes working so he makes reader cockwarm him to shut him up

Cockwarming With Sunday

🍓Dom Sunday makes my skin crawl. Anyway, I went for a softer take than what you wanted, sorry lol. Even when Sunday tops I can't see him as all that mean, at least, not in the way this was worded lol. Anyway, I'm very well Sunday's biggest hater (I love him more than life itself), so I hope you enjoy this. I want him dead.

Tw: NSFW; Implied power dynamics; Mean(?) Sunday; Grammar Errors; ts kinda ass

Info: Dom!Sunday x M!Reader (it's hard to tell lol); Cockwarming; pre ae sunday; Nsfw

Word Count: 1.5k

Sunday was always considered to be a patient man, especially with those he considered important to him. He had put up with plenty of Robin's silly plans and humored her with delight -- he loved her after all, and any plan she had wasn't truly all that silly so long as it came from her. He even enjoyed her endless conversations when he was meant to be finishing up paperwork. His time with her was sparse, he could afford extra time away from his duties for her. She never kept him for long anyway, understanding his position better than anyone else.

You, however, did not have the excuse of being his darling sister. You spent a significant amount of time with him, both in and out of work, and he had all the time in the world to spend with you. Which meant you knew better than most others how much he needed to fill out this report today. Yet... you kept running those stupidly pretty lips of yours.

He wasn't even sure what you were talking about, he'd tuned you out about ten minutes into your talking. Nearly an hour had passed, and you were still going on and on about something or another -- he catches that it's about an up-and-coming artist you'd seen, not that he cares for any musician that isn't his sister. It wouldn't be so bad if you were just talking, he'd mastered the technique of ignoring things that seemed to get under his skin, but you needed assurance that he was listening.

He would occasionally have to pause and answer questions without much context, or hum in acknowledgement of your words. Your incessant rambling is normally incredibly endearing to him, but with the deadline looming over his head, and the ache stinging between his brows it was enough to make it vexing.

He lets out a sigh, hands pressing the pen to the desk just a bit too harshly. You silence yourself, flinching back a little in surprise. He nearly coos, he hadn't meant to scare you, but you were very cute when frightened. (Perhaps he shouldn't be thinking such things...)

"My love," He hums, meeting your gaze with a calm smile, "you know I love having you around, don't you?"

You nod, nervousness shining in your eyes, giving you away despite the brave front you put on. You were always too easy for him to read, a bit concerning considering the enemies he has, but he'd prefer you pliant than hardened -- at least, in that way.

He gestures to the papers on his desk, "You also know how important it is that I get this done today, yes?"

"Of course," You answer immediately, and he can see the realization of why he was scolding you across your face. So very cute. "Was I talking too much?"

He hums an affectionate smile on his face, and gestures for you to come to his side. You do so with no arguments, as expected. He turns in his chair, grabbing you by your hips to situate you between his legs. You flush a bit at the contact, predictable as always, but he chooses not to comment on it.

"I need to get this done, angel," He asserts again, and you frown shamefully.

"Would you like me to leave?" You offer, but the idea sours something in his chest.

He shakes his head adamantly, "Of course not. I love having you here, but you'll have to behave for me."

There is a spark behind your eyes at his words that makes him ache a bit, his member coming to life much too fast for his liking. The effect seems to be mutual, as far as he can tell from his position near your crotch. His placid smile morphs into a slight smirk, and his eyes meet yours again, "You can behave for me, can't you?"

You nod adamantly, "Of course, s-sir." The title is stuttered, somehow unsure despite your knowing very well what he wanted from you now. It was so adorable how concerned you were with overstepping with him. You truly could do no wrong in his eyes, even when you were getting in the way of his work.

"Then," he pushes you to step back, leaning back in his chair, "Take your pants and underwear off for me. Quickly, I'd like to get this done as soon as possible."

You nod again, doing as he says like a well-trained pet, pretty eyes looking to him for approval as you shove the clothes to the side. He rewards you with a smile, leaning forward to run a finger along the bottom of your hard cock. You hiss at the sensation, drawing a chuckle from his chest.

He eases himself out of his pants as he tugs on your sensitive member a few times, enjoying the little whimpers you give him. His dick springs free, hitting his stomach. He leans back again as it does, telling you what to do with his eyes alone. You follow along like in a trance -- he'd almost believed you were under the influence Harmony, if it weren’t for the fact that he wasn’t using it in the moment.

You hiss lowly as he slides into you. Going raw must've been painful for you, but it felt heavenly for him. Your ass squeezed him so well like it was meant to hold him deep within. He smiles reassuringly at you as you finally sit fully on his lap, taking your chin in his hand to settle a kiss to your lips.

"Very good," He compliments.

You bite your lip, averting your gaze, "Thank you, sir."

He tuts at you, drawing your gaze back just as quickly as it left, "You can sit still and wait like a good boy, can't you? If you can't well..."

"Of course I can!" You respond with a desperation that surprises both of you, quickly adding, "Sir."

"Good, good," he hums, pressing a warm hand against the back of your neck. Your chin rests against his shoulder on instinct, getting comfortable against him. Once he's satisfied with you behaving, he leans forward and starts back to working on the document you'd been distracting him from.

The scratching of his pen is one of the only things keeping you grounded in reality. The stretch of his thick cock in your ass is almost too much for your brain to handle. You shouldn't have been talking so much, honestly, this is no one's fault but your own. Still, the torture of not being allowed to move for fear of worse punishment is enough to make you want to cry.

You sit there pretty on his dick like a good boy, though. Always so obedient for him, if only he didn't have to tell you to behave. No one is perfect, so this was a sacrifice Sunday had to make to keep things as he liked.

His fingers climb up your spine, tingling across your body right to your achingly hard cock. You almost hear Sunday chuckle when it twitches between the two of you, but it's so quiet you believe you might've made it up in your fucked out brain. You wiggle your hips in an attempt to get some friction, but all Sunday has to do is place his hand on it and you cease all movements.

Sunday seems, on the outside, entirely unaffected by everything. For the most part, he really is. He's blasting through his work faster than before, but that was because he couldn't wait much longer to bend you over the papers and reward you for good behavior. Each squeeze around him has him swallowing down groans, determined to not give into your temptations -- no matter how wonderful that sounded.

When he signs the last dotted line and closes the stack of papers back to the front page he lets out a sigh that resembles more of a moan than anything as you clench anticipatorily around him yet again. His pen is set on the desk with a little 'click', and he finally looks at you after agonizing minutes of your squirming. Lust has clouded over his gaze, and he looks positively angelic nearly lost to his own sin.

You are no better, pleading with your eyes for him to fuck you like the sweet thing you were. Tears pricked at the corners of your lashes, a picture of absolute beauty. He smiles at you, wiping them away from your cheeks as they spill over.

"You were very good, my sweet angel," He hums, moving his hands to your hips, "you deserve a reward for behaving, don't you?"

You nod adamantly, your heart picking up in excitement. He raises an eyebrow expectantly at you, and you know what you're meant to do next without the need for words. Standing from his lap, hissing as he leaves your tight hole, and bending over his desk like the good pet you were.

"Very good..." He hums, and your spine tingles in excitement as you hear his pants and belt hit the floor around his feet.

[jadeshifting]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱ SUPERNATURAL DR. ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ .　. 　 ˚　.

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

the thing about me is that i’ve always been a little off. not in a way you could put your finger on—rather, it’s the kind of strangeness that sneaks up on people. i hum under my breath, something old and haunting. sometimes people notice the way i watch the world, like i’m expecting it to crack open and spill something glittering and awful at my feet. i’m like a girl who stepped out of a gothic storybook and never quite made it all the way back

˚　.˚ . 　 ˚　.　.˚ BUNNY ( not telling the Winchesters my real name, or anyone else)—magnetic beauty, occupying the knife’s edge of angelic and eerie. luminous skin, bright and expressive eyes, my hair thick and pitch black dark—i look like i’ve just stepped out of a wildest dream, or maybe a grave

this story finds both its beginning and its end at the crossroads—with a deal

my soul—inevitable currency—for ten fleeting years of bliss. freedom to wander, promised a family—the word, “family,” trembles on my tongue, foreign and brittle after years lost in the abyss of solitude. do I even remember how to say it? i seal the pact with a kiss, tasting brimstone and rot. the demon smiles, and in that sulfurous breath, the contract is etched into the marrow of my being

when the Winchester brothers roll into town to deal with a poltergeist, neither of them question the strange feeling in their chest that screams take her with you. they just do

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱ “what the hell are you supposed to be?”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱ “i’m Bunny !!”

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

BRAIN-TOUCHED BY THE SPIRIT.

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　

˚　.˚ ♱⋆. LUCK O’ THE BUNNY—in other words, i seem to possess an almost supernatural amount of luck. coincidences break in my favor constantly—drawers contain exactly what i need, elevators arrive just in time, and once, a ghost’s axe misses me by a hair. i insist it’s just good energy, but the boys are convinced i’m beyond charmed in some way they can’t even begin to untangle, let alone explain

“a head full of ghosts,” my Sunday school teacher used to murmur, a prophecy cloaked in piety. perhaps she saw the truth before i did—whispers of the unseen curling around my mind, spirits pressing their truths into my bones. the air trembles with unseen forces, and i feel them, pulsing through my veins, screaming in my ears. creatures lurking in the shadows and the unspoken intentions of souls crash into me, a cacophony of the damned that never sleeps—knowledge that guides the Winchesters’ hunts with eerie precision

SAMMY. ( antichrist, boyfriend, etc)

the vessel of Lucifer managing to be deeply in love with the only individual who manages to be more of a freak oddball than him—and still entirely human

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⋆♱ it takes time for Sam to warm up to me (necklace of teeth, roadside shoplifting tendencies, unusual passion for motel mattresses), and i don’t entirely blame him. maybe it’s the proximity we have to eachother—rescinded to the Impala backseat when we both piss off Dean, shoved into diner booths, sharing the same single room at the motel and sleeping four feet away from eachother.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⋆♱ perhaps it’s the way my eyes linger, drinking in every word as he unravels the threads of paranormal lore, or how I remain by his side deep into the night, sifting through ancient texts when his own resolve falters. or maybe it’s the unflinching gaze I offer him, never clouded by judgment, even when shadows of his past paint him as something other than human. unlike those who have called him a monster—father, brother—I see him, wholly. i’m not sure. regardless, he finds himself enamored by my curious gaze and my striking ability to always do the most off-putting thing available

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

PAST. ( a long, long time ago. )

i grew up in the kind of sleepy Catholic town where everything smelled like incense and old wood. i was the quiet girl at the back of Sunday school, too pretty to ignore but too odd to keep close. while the other children were memorizing Bible verses and coloring in pictures of saints, i would sit cross-legged and staring, chewing thoughtfully at the ends of my hair. i asked the kinds of questions that made the nuns cross themselves

“if i buried my teeth in the yard, would something grow there?”

.　　. 　 ˚　. my parents weren’t cruel, but they were tired. maybe you’d be tired, too, if you had a daughter who always seemed to be somewhere else, even when she was standing right in front of you. they tried, but i was like smoke slipping through their fingers. when i was sixteen, my mother died suddenly, and my father didn’t last much longer. grief, they said, but i didn’t believe that. i knew grief didn’t leave fingerprints on the inside of windows or whisper my name when i was falling asleep

after that, the house was mine. it was a big, empty place that groaned when the wind hit just right, and i filled it with things that made sense to me: bones i found in the woods, tarot cards i stole from a flea market, broken dolls, and the leftover echoes of prayers i couldn’t quite remember

i met the demon on an ordinary Tuesday. i’d been wandering barefoot down the pale stones of the road, not realizing it even crossed—red iPod in my ears, humming along to Fleetwood Mac—when i heard the voice. smooth as silk, it coiled around me like smoke, whispering things i didn’t want to hear but couldn’t exactly ignore

“pretty girl like you, all alone. doesn’t that bother you?”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱ “why don’t you show me your face and i’ll tell you if you’re worth my time?”

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when he did appear, all fire and shadows and hungry teeth, i just tilted my head and smiled, unbothered. i wasn’t afraid of him. maybe because i’d been expecting something like him my whole life

he offered me power. i declined. he offered me money. i laughed. but when he promised me a way out—out of that house, a new family, nothing to keep me stuck to the town whose fear rattled my skull like an animal in a cage—i paused. “and where would I go?” i asked

“anywhere,” the demon said. “everywhere. you’d like the road, Bunny.”

i met the Winchesters not long after that

I’M A LOT OF THINGS. ( useless isn’t one of them )

 ˚　.˚ ♱⋆ “VIBE-CHECKING” ( intuition ) — though it’s a combination of psychic power and an ability to read things, i can sense the energy of a place or person immediately. while Sammy and Dean are often skeptical, i’m never wrong. if i say “this diner is cursed,” you bet your ass we’re eating elsewhere

˚　.˚ ♱⋆ “POTION” MAKING — crafting strange, makeshift remedies that should not work by any medical or magical standard, but just do. a mix of intuition, vibes, and my great-grandmother’s old herbal tendencies—need an antidote for a venomous bite or a charm to keep spirits at bay? i’ll whip something up with ingredients i foraged on the motel lawn, a packet of sugar, and maybe a splash of tequila

 ˚　.˚ ♱⋆ EVASIVE DRIVING. — i’m good behind the wheel (considering i only get practice on podunk roads when Dean gives me a shot), particularly when it comes to outrunning angry spirits or law enforcement. my style is horrifying, but i’ve managed to lose pursuit on multiple occasions, all while blasting Ethel Cain at full volume (i take full advantage of Dean’s ‘driver picks the music’ rule)

  ˚　.˚ ♱⋆ DREAM INTERPRETATION. — dreams are the key to everything. i’m scarily accurate when it comes to interpreting them, which unsettles Sammy, especially when i casually translate his nightmares into cryptic warnings

“you dreamed of a crow flying into a window? oh, Sammy, that means we’re probably dealing with death omens. exciting!”

　　　 　　a game i love: WHAT DOES BUNNY KEEP IN THE BACKSEAT WITH HER ??

a deck of tarot cards, Burnett’s whipped cream flavored vodka, rosary, a jumbo kit kat, leatherbound journal, snow globe i stole from Wyoming, lemon blueberry tart perfume, tiny scissors, jingling bag of soda caps ( you get the vibe, truly )

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˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[starfruitii]

cws & notes. reader is kind of insecure. akaashi keiji x gn!reader. established relationship. slight angst. 600+ words. idk where this came from but enjoy?

“Do you think you’ll get sick of me, one day?”

You regret the words as soon as they leave your lips. In your head, it sounded like a perfectly sound question, but with the way Keiji is looking at you, it’s clear he doesn’t agree. 

“I beg your pardon, dear?” His voice is painfully soft, brows furrowing in concern as he places his book down on the coffee table. Under his gentle gaze, you feel stripped bare, exposed in all your insecurity. You should have swallowed the question down, as sharp as it felt in your throat, anything to avoid the way he’s staring at you now.

“Nevermind,” You say quickly, snatching the TV remote from the table, and busying yourself with choosing a show. The screen flicks between channels, flashing brightly coloured lights across your faces. “That was a dumb question. I’m sorry, just forget it.”

“My love,” Keiji reached out a hand, lightly brushing the side of your face. With a gentle, but firm grip, he grasped your chin and tilted your head to the side to face him. “[Name]. Why are you asking me that?” 

“No reason. Don’t worry about it.” You try to laugh it off, but you can only choke out a quiet sob. Somehow, somewhere between asking the question and now, your eyes started burning, glazing over with unshed tears.

Damn. He’s looking even more concerned now. Why couldn’t you have just kept it to yourself, tucking those doubts far into the dusty corners of your head, where his ears would never reach them?

“Hey,” Keiji brushed his thumb under your eyes, wiping away a stray tear that falls. “You’re getting me worried now. Are you okay? What happened?”

There was a long pause, and something inside you cracks. You let out a sniffle, then a gasp, then the last piece of your self-control breaks, in a mess of tears and snot. Keiji’s face crumples, and he tugs you forward into his chest, rubbing your back soothingly as you continue to cry. 

“Did I do something?” He presses. “Am I not treating you the way you want to be treated? I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, but please tell me what I did–”

“No!” You quickly say, regaining your composure slightly. He’s never done anything, never hurt you, intentionally, or unintentionally, never said the wrong words, never made you feel unloved. That was the problem. Because nothing gold shines forever, and every good thing comes to an end. You were just waiting for the end, the moment he decides he is done with your self-consciousness, your bad habits, your looks. 

There is always a reason for someone to leave; you’ve learnt that the hard way. 

“I-I don’t know,” You mumble, tracing your nail against the couch. “I just–I guess, most people do. Get sick of me, that is. And I d-don’t wanna lose you too.”

Keiji was silent for a moment, and for a moment you worry that you've ruined things. The thought lingers in your mind for only a second, because a second later there are half-a-dozen kisses being pressed to the top of your head.

“I love you,” Keiji whispers between each peck. “I love you, so, so much. I love you, and I love you, and I will say it as many times as it takes you to believe it.”

The feeling of his breath tickles your skin, making you laugh weakly.

“I'm never going to get sick of you,” He continues. “I adore you, and every part of you. No matter what happens, I'm never leaving. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper back.

Keiji kisses your cheek. “Good. Now, why don't you put on a movie for us to watch?”

[hrizantemy]

Her name was Taryn.

Nesta had learned that much, though she hadn’t bothered to ask at first. It had just come to her one night, somewhere between the second drink and the steady hum of the music in the background. Taryn had introduced herself easily, but that was about all she gave. There were no stories, no explanations, just a quiet presence that seemed to stretch out into the space around them.

And Nesta hadn’t pressed. Not for details, not for more than what was offered. She wasn’t one to pry, especially into someone who had mastered the art of silence the way Taryn had. They didn’t need words to fill the gaps. The tavern’s music spoke enough for both of them, and in the stillness between their conversations, Nesta found an unspoken understanding.

Taryn didn’t talk much about herself either, and in that silence, Nesta had come to appreciate it. They both had their walls, their secrets. Neither of them seemed inclined to tear them down. Sometimes, when Nesta would glance over at Taryn, she would catch that glint of something behind her eyes—something old and knowing. But Taryn didn’t press either. She had her own past, a quiet one that Nesta had no interest in unraveling.

It was an odd sort of companionship, the two of them sharing the space without the need for constant conversation. Neither of them asked questions they weren’t prepared to answer, and in that, there was a strange comfort. They shared the same unspoken understanding: there were things you didn’t need to explain, not when you were already carrying so much.

So, they sat in silence often, watching the night unfold with the music as the only conversation between them. Neither of them bothered to ask why the other was there. Neither of them needed to.

Nesta had long since assumed that Taryn came to the tavern for one of two reasons: to drink or to go home with someone. It was what most people did, after all. The tavern was full of people seeking fleeting comfort, whether it came in the form of a drink or a companion for the night. Yet, Taryn didn’t fit into either of those molds.

She barely drank, always nursing her glass instead of downing it, a contrast to the usual faces that crowded the bar. Her movements were measured, calm, as though she had no real need to escape or forget, unlike many of the others who came to drown their troubles. Taryn’s consumption was almost ritualistic—an occasional sip, a slow swirl of the liquid in her glass, but never enough to abandon control. She was deliberate, thoughtful, as though she had no desire to lose herself in the haze that so many others craved.

And when the night ended, when the music faded and the crowd began to thin, Taryn always left alone. Nesta had watched this countless times—the quiet exit, her back straight and her steps sure, as if she was already on her way to something far more important than whatever was happening inside the tavern.

It was strange to Nesta, the way Taryn moved through the world with such purpose, yet seemed so… untethered. She had expected to see her approach someone, to watch her flirt with a stranger or get lost in a conversation that led to a bed. But it never happened. Taryn didn’t leave with anyone. She just went home by herself, night after night, no strings attached, no attempts at distraction.

Nesta didn’t quite understand it, not at first. It felt unnatural—everyone came to places like this for some kind of escape, didn’t they?

Nesta had long since figured out that Taryn preferred the company of women. It wasn’t something that had come to her immediately—it wasn’t like Taryn wore it on her sleeve—but as time passed, certain things became clear. The way her gaze lingered on women more than on men, the subtle shifts in her demeanor when a woman entered the tavern. It wasn’t overt, but Nesta could sense it, a quiet energy that surrounded Taryn when she spoke to them, an ease that never quite appeared with men. It was something that Nesta had noticed, and, after a while, she couldn’t deny it.

One night, after enough drinks had dulled the sharp edges of her thoughts, Nesta found herself asking the question that had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for weeks. Her words slurred a little, but there was a certain curiosity behind them that couldn’t be ignored. She asked, almost without thinking, “You prefer women, don’t you?”

Taryn had raised an eyebrow at the question, but there was no hesitation in her response. She simply nodded, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I do,” she said, her voice low and unbothered.

Nesta expected something—an uncomfortable pause, maybe, a feeling of rejection or some sort of judgment, but nothing came. There was no judgment in Taryn’s eyes, no moment of awkwardness that made Nesta feel small. It was just… a fact. Something simple, and Nesta had found herself surprisingly unaffected.

She thought she would be offended, that some part of her would react as if Taryn’s admission was something that needed to be dissected or questioned. But it wasn’t. There was no anger, no surprise, just a strange calmness that settled over her, as though Taryn’s truth didn’t change anything between them. It didn’t matter. Taryn didn’t owe her an explanation, and for once, Nesta didn’t feel the need to dissect every detail of it.

After Nesta had figured it out, something began to stir in her thoughts. Night after night, when the tavern was quiet and the music had faded into the background, her mind would return to Taryn and what she had said. Taryn preferred women.

It wasn’t something that Nesta had ever really thought about before, at least not with any depth. She hadn’t been around women like that, not in the way Taryn was. It wasn’t that she disapproved, or even felt disgusted—it was just… foreign to her. Nesta didn’t really understand how someone could love a woman the way Taryn loved them. She couldn’t grasp the feelings, the pull that must have existed there.

She had known attraction—men, their rough hands and demanding gazes—but women? It wasn’t something she had ever considered. How did it feel to want another woman the way she had wanted men, to feel that same fire, that same need? The question lingered in her mind like a dull ache, but Nesta didn’t know how to answer it. She hadn’t experienced it herself, hadn’t felt that longing for someone of the same sex. It made her wonder if there was something wrong with her, or if she was just missing some piece of the puzzle that Taryn had seemed to find so easily.

The confusion would wash over her in waves, late at night when she was alone with her thoughts and the empty glass in her hand. She didn’t understand it. How could someone fall for someone of the same sex, when everything in her had always told her it was supposed to be a man who sparked that desire?

But still, there was no judgment—just curiosity. She wasn’t offended by Taryn’s preferences, but a strange kind of distance remained. It was as though she were on the outside of something, unable to fully comprehend it, even though she wanted to.

Some part of her, deep inside, was disgusted—not with Taryn, but with herself. It wasn’t something she could admit, not even to herself at first, but it gnawed at her. The confusion, the curiosity, the questions—it all circled back to something darker, something deeper.

There was a part of her that felt a strange shame, not for Taryn’s preferences, but for her own inability to understand them. It made her feel… small, as if there was something wrong with her for not being able to accept this part of the world so easily. She wasn’t repulsed by Taryn, not at all. No, it was the way Taryn’s reality highlighted a flaw in her own. A flaw that she wasn’t ready to face.

Nesta had always prided herself on understanding things—on having a handle on what was right, what was wrong, what made sense. She had always known the rules, the roles, the expectations. But this? This was different. It made her feel as if she were somehow behind, unable to catch up with the rest of the world. There was nothing wrong with Taryn, but there was something wrong with her for not immediately understanding it. She hated that she couldn’t just accept it without questioning everything, without feeling like there was something missing inside her.

It wasn’t just confusion. It was shame, like she wasn’t enough—like she was the one who didn’t fit, who couldn’t keep up with what felt like an endless flow of new realities and experiences. She didn’t know if this was something that was wrong with her, or if she simply didn’t belong in this world where there were so many shades of gray she couldn’t even begin to color in.

And the worst part? She couldn’t bring herself to admit it. Not to anyone. Not even to herself in full honesty. So, she buried it, just as she buried so many other things. But it was there, lurking beneath the surface, and every time she saw Taryn, every time she thought of how easily Taryn moved through the world, it stung a little more.

Nesta found herself at the bar again, seated beside Taryn, a drink in hand. She wasn’t sure what brought her here this time. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the feeling of drowning in the chaos of her thoughts, or maybe it was something about Taryn that made her feel a bit safer, even when her mind was a tangle of contradictions.

The drink was strong, just like the last time, and as it burned down her throat, something in her cracked open. The questions that had been bubbling inside her for weeks, the confusion, the shame, the disgust—everything that had been building up inside her suddenly felt like too much to keep quiet. She couldn’t stop it. It tumbled out before she could even stop herself.

“How… how do you like women?” The words came out blunt, unrefined, as if she didn’t even care how they sounded. The alcohol had loosened her tongue, and now the question hung in the air between them, raw and uncomfortable.

Taryn turned to her slowly, her gaze steady. There was no judgment in her eyes, just a quiet kind of understanding, something that made Nesta feel exposed. She could feel the heat rising to her face, the vulnerability settling into her bones. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but now that it was out there, she couldn’t take it back.

Taryn didn’t immediately answer. She took a sip of her drink, her expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, she spoke, her voice soft, almost gentle.

“It’s not something that’s easy to explain,” Taryn said, her tone thoughtful. “It’s not about how you like someone, it’s just about who you’re drawn to. It’s not about logic or reason… it just is. And that’s enough.”

Nesta swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Taryn’s words settle deep inside her. It didn’t quite answer her question. It didn’t give her the clarity she had been hoping for. But there was something about the simplicity of it that made her feel… lighter.

Taryn’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, and then she gave a soft, almost imperceptible shrug. “It’s not about having to explain it to anyone else, either. It’s about what feels right for you.”

Nesta took another drink, trying to process the words.

Nesta stared into her glass, swirling the drink as the silence stretched between them. The music in the background seemed to blur into a distant hum, and her thoughts ran wild, chaotic as always, trying to piece together what she couldn’t understand. There was still something gnawing at her, some question that had lingered in her mind ever since she had asked Taryn how she could like women. The question, so simple but so tangled, wouldn’t leave her.

She glanced at Taryn, her lips pressed into a thin line as the words formed in her mind. It wasn’t a question she’d ever thought she’d ask, but the weight of it was too heavy to ignore.

“Have you… ever wanted men?” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them. She didn’t know why she was asking. She didn’t know if she was prepared for the answer, but it was there, and she couldn’t push it back down.

Taryn didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem surprised. She just regarded Nesta with those steady green eyes, as if she had been expecting this question all along. Her fingers rested on the edge of her glass, her thumb tracing a pattern absentmindedly.

“Once,” Taryn said quietly, the word soft but lingering in the air. “A long time ago. But it was never the same, never what it should have been. I thought it was, but I was just trying to convince myself.” She paused, the briefest shadow crossing her face before her expression smoothed again. “It wasn’t real. Not for me.”

Nesta didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of her felt relief, but another part of her, the part that had been taught to look for logic, for reason, felt unsettled. How could it have been so clear to Taryn? How could she know so fully? Nesta hadn’t even started to figure herself out, let alone something like that. She couldn’t understand what it felt like to desire something different from the world she knew, from the expectations she had been raised with.

Nesta’s thoughts drifted back to the human lands, to the world she had come from. The world of strict rules, of things expected of her, of the roles she was supposed to fill, the people she was supposed to be. She thought of her mother, of the old traditions, of the whispers that ran through the halls of their estate. The idea of deviating from what was “right” had never really been a possibility for her—until now.

It wasn’t even about wanting to understand it. There was a part of her, deep down, that wanted to push it all away, to close her mind and shut off the curiosity. She couldn’t even explain why. The idea of being with another woman—the thought felt foreign, as if her mind recoiled at it instinctively, as if the concept itself was something wrong, something forbidden. It was so deeply ingrained in her, this fear of being different from what society expected, from what she had grown up knowing.

In the human lands, they had rules—rules that told you who to love, who to marry, who you were allowed to be. Her mother had made sure she understood that. “A woman’s place is with a man,” her mother had said, a reminder as harsh as the walls that had caged Nesta into her place, into the role she was supposed to fit. Her mother had always tried to push her toward the ideal match, toward the right kind of man, the one who would give her a future she didn’t even want. And the thought of anything else—anything different—had always been wrong.

Nesta’s chest tightened as she thought about it. It wasn’t about Taryn. It wasn’t about her at all. It was the world she had come from, the world that had shaped her. The idea that something other than a man could be right, could be enough, felt like betrayal. The weight of that shame pressed on her, and she found herself questioning: Was something wrong with her for even thinking about it?

The very thought made her feel small, like she was doing something dirty, something shameful. She didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t want to acknowledge that there was a part of her—hidden, deeply buried—that felt that way, that recoiled against the idea of being with a woman. Her heart raced as if the very thought would tear apart everything she had ever known about herself.

She swallowed hard, trying to push the feelings away. She could never have said it aloud—not even to Taryn. It was too much. Too foreign, too uncomfortable. It felt like it would unravel her, like it would expose something broken in her, something twisted that shouldn’t exist.

Nesta’s mind spiraled back to her mother—the woman who had molded her, who had carved out her place in the world for her, a place that always involved a man. Her mother’s teachings, her expectations, had been so clear, so concrete. There had never been room for anything else. Nesta had been raised to believe that her worth, her purpose, lay in pleasing the men around her—whether it was her father, the suitors she’d been pushed toward, or, later, Cassian.

She thought of Cassian then. His strong, comforting presence, the way he seemed to always be there, as though he were the anchor to her storm. She’d felt something for him, or maybe it was just the relief of finally having someone who didn’t look at her with disdain. He’d taken her by force, claimed her as his own in every sense of the word, and for a long time, Nesta had convinced herself that that—him, his touch, his dominance—was the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t love, not really, but it was what she had come to expect. It was what she knew.

She thought about her mother’s words, about the unspoken pressure to marry, to produce heirs, to keep the line intact. Men, men, men. It was all men. Every lesson, every expectation. That’s what she had been raised to understand: that women were supposed to belong to men, to be shaped by them, molded by them, loved by them. But when Nesta thought about it now, all she could feel was the tightness in her chest, the frustration, the resentment. She wasn’t sure if it was the men or herself she hated more, because somehow she felt complicit in it all. She let them define her, let them use her, let them claim her, even when it made her feel empty inside.

And now, she sat here, with Taryn, who was the opposite of all those expectations, who didn’t want a man at all. It made Nesta’s mind spin. How could someone—someone like her—be different? How could a woman choose to love another woman? It felt like an intrusion on everything she had been taught, like a rejection of her very existence. The very idea of it, of choosing a woman, felt so foreign and wrong, even if Nesta knew in her heart that Taryn wasn’t broken, wasn’t flawed.

It was her mother’s voice in her head, the disapproving glare she’d have if she knew. It was the legacy of generations of women who had never been given a choice, whose only purpose was to serve men.

As the silence stretched between them, Nesta couldn’t shake the feeling that Taryn might be able to see right through her, to the ugly thoughts lurking beneath the surface. She felt a cold knot twist in her stomach. What if Taryn knew? What if she could somehow read Nesta’s mind, understand the internalized disgust, the way her brain rejected this idea of women loving women?

Would Taryn hate her for it? For the part of her that recoiled at the thought? For the way she had been taught to see things in such narrow, rigid lines—men, women, roles, rules? The part of her that had tried to bury everything she thought she knew about herself, to keep it locked away so no one could see just how deeply confused she was by this new world she was stumbling into.

The thought gnawed at her. Taryn had never pushed, never tried to make Nesta feel anything other than comfortable, but Nesta couldn’t help but wonder if Taryn would look at her differently if she knew what was really running through her mind. Could she still see her as someone worthy of her company, or would she see the disgust, the shame?

The last thing Nesta wanted was to lose the only person who hadn’t looked at her like she was broken—who hadn’t looked at her like she was someone to be fixed, or worse, to be discarded. Taryn had made no judgment, offered no expectations. But now, Nesta felt like a fraud. Was it even possible to be around someone like Taryn without being honest with herself? Would Taryn hate her for thinking she wasn’t even capable of understanding who she truly was?

The weight of it all settled in her chest, the fear and the shame wrapping around her, tightening with each passing moment. She had come here, night after night, trying to numb herself, to forget. But now, she had no choice but to wonder if, deep down, Taryn could see her for what she truly was: a woman who didn’t even know herself enough to trust her own thoughts, a woman scared of everything she felt, of everything she was.

The night she’d run, it had felt like everything had collapsed on her. She had been suffocating under the weight of her own thoughts, the fear, the shame, the uncertainty. The silence that had stretched between her and Taryn had felt suffocating, and for the first time in a long while, Nesta had wanted to scream, to lash out at something, at someone. But instead, she had done what she always did when things felt too much—she ran.

Her feet had carried her out of the tavern before she even knew what she was doing. She hadn’t said a word to Taryn, not a single syllable, even as she saw the confusion in her gaze. She had just turned and fled, not caring where she went, just needing to escape. Escape from herself, from the thoughts she couldn’t stop, from the feelings she couldn’t control.

After that night, she hadn’t returned. Not once. The thought of walking through the door again, of facing Taryn, of facing herself, had felt impossible. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself go back there. What if Taryn saw the truth? What if she knew how broken, how lost Nesta really was? What if she saw how much she hated herself, how much she despised everything she had come to believe about herself, her desires, her place in the world? It was easier to just avoid it all, to pretend she had never gone to the tavern in the first place.

So she ran. It was the only thing she knew how to do. When things got too hard, when the weight of it all became too heavy, she ran. She ran from the pain, from the thoughts she couldn’t escape, from the guilt that seemed to follow her everywhere. She ran from herself, because it was easier than facing the truth.

Each night, she found herself staying away from the places that once felt like a refuge, from the people who might see through her carefully constructed facade. The tavern had been a place of escape, a place where she could lose herself in drink and company, but now it was just another reminder of how far she had fallen, how much she was drowning in her own mind.

And so, Nesta kept running. From everything. From the woman who had never asked her for anything more than to be herself. From the very thing she was too scared to understand. And, most of all, from the person she might become if she ever stopped long enough to look.

One night, after weeks of running, Nesta had found herself standing at the edge of a decision. She had tried to convince herself it was time to stop hiding, to stop running. The pull of the tavern had been too strong, and there, amidst the warmth and the laughter, she had found herself looking at a woman, someone who seemed to gaze at her with an openness that stirred something deep inside her—a feeling she couldn’t name, something that felt raw and unguarded. It was tempting, too tempting to push away.

She had approached, hesitant but curious, the sharp edge of her emotions still cutting through her resolve. The woman had smiled, and they had shared a drink. The conversation had flowed easily, and Nesta felt a strange, fleeting connection. She had told herself it was just a drink, just a conversation, that it didn’t have to mean anything. But in the back of her mind, she knew it was more. She wanted it to be more.

When the woman leaned in, her breath warm against Nesta’s skin, she didn’t pull away. It had felt so easy, so natural in the moment, and she had thought for a second—just a second—that maybe, just maybe, this was how it could feel.

But when the woman’s hands had touched her skin, when their lips had met, everything had shattered.

It wasn’t the woman’s fault. It wasn’t even her fault. But as the kiss deepened, as the heat of her touch spread through Nesta, a wave of discomfort hit her, too strong to ignore. The hands on her body felt wrong—too familiar, too foreign at the same time. The lips, the warmth, the taste—it all blurred together into something unnatural. Her stomach twisted, her chest tightened, and her mind screamed for her to stop.

And then the voices came. The voices she’d tried so hard to push down, to ignore. You were never meant for this, they whispered, cold and harsh. This is wrong. You’re not supposed to want this. You’re not supposed to be like them. Her mind, once so clouded by drink, now seemed crystal clear, every word sharp, every fear magnified. She heard her mother’s voice, distant but unmistakable—You are a disappointment. A failure. Do you really think they’ll accept you? The voices of men from her past, from her childhood, echoed next—You were made for a man. You’ll never be enough for anything else.

Her chest tightened painfully as she shoved the woman away, her hands trembling as she backed off, unable to breathe through the storm of thoughts and shame that overtook her. She felt trapped in her own skin, like every part of her was screaming at her, telling her she had done something unforgivable. That she had crossed a line she couldn’t uncross.

Nesta didn’t even say anything. She just turned and ran.

She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself. The kiss hadn’t been bad—it wasn’t the woman’s fault. It was her own mind that had betrayed her. She could still feel the heat of the woman’s skin against hers, but all she could hear were the horrible things in her head, the accusations and judgment she had spent so long trying to bury.

The guilt felt suffocating, the rejection of herself complete. She had wanted to give in, to let herself feel something different, something that was hers. But the moment it became real, her mind spiraled into chaos. The whispers of everything she had been taught, of everything she was supposed to be, consumed her.

Nesta had retreated into the dark confines of her apartment, the world outside fading into a blur she no longer wanted to confront. She barely left anymore, choosing to stay in the silence of her own misery. Each day bled into the next, a cycle of self-loathing and numbness. She had stopped even pretending to care about the world beyond her door. It was easier this way. Easier to hide from everyone, from everything, from the part of herself she didn’t understand and feared.

The apartment had become her refuge, but also her prison. The walls closed in on her, suffocating, but it didn’t matter. It felt like the only place she belonged now, the only place she could hide from herself. She spent her days numbing the pain—drinking, sleeping, avoiding. It was a hollow existence, but it was all she had.

Some nights, as the darkness crept in, Nesta found herself wishing she could disappear entirely. If she stayed here long enough, isolated and buried under her own guilt, maybe the world would forget about her. Maybe the whispers in her head would finally fade.

She had no real desire to live anymore. The constant weight of everything—the shame, the confusion, the fear—felt too heavy to bear. If she was lucky, maybe she’d wake up one day and find that it was over. That she had disappeared without a trace, like she had never existed at all.

But she didn’t die. Not yet. So she kept hiding, kept suffocating in the quiet, hoping for something—anything—to end it. The thought of dying seemed almost comforting. It would be easy to slip away, to not have to feel anymore, to not have to face the parts of herself that made her want to run and hide.

The knock at the door came suddenly, breaking the silence that had swallowed her whole. Nesta froze for a moment, sitting on the edge of her couch, eyes fixed on the door. For a heartbeat, she convinced herself it was Cassian. Maybe he was finally here to tell her how horrible she looked—how pathetic she had become. He would taunt her with some sharp, sarcastic comment, maybe even drop some well-meaning remark about how Feyre had been concerned, about how her family was worried for her. He might mock her for staying holed up in her apartment, running away from everything, expecting a comeback from her, some biting response to make him feel justified in his judgment.

It would be just like him.

Her heart pounded in her chest, not from fear but from the dread of facing him—of hearing him look down on her again. The thought of seeing his face made her stomach churn. What did it matter if he came? He wouldn’t understand. He never did.

But then the knock came again, louder this time, pulling her from her spiral. She gritted her teeth and stood, her legs shaky as she walked toward the door. Her breath hitched in her throat, and for a moment, she considered ignoring it. Let whoever it was think she wasn’t home. Let them go away.

But the knock persisted, and against her better judgment, she turned the handle.

When the door creaked open, it wasn’t Cassian standing there.

It was Taryn.

Nesta tensed, every muscle in her body tightening as she stood in the doorway, staring at Taryn. Her mind screamed at her to close the door, to retreat back into the safety of her isolation. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need anyone seeing the mess she had become, seeing how far she had fallen. But for some reason, her feet didn’t move, and she found herself staring into Taryn’s calm, unwavering gaze.

“What do you want?” Nesta asked, her voice harsher than she intended. Her stomach twisted with unease, but Taryn didn’t flinch.

Taryn tilted her head slightly, a faint, knowing smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Company,” she said simply. “I thought I’d come by, see how you’re doing.” She paused for a moment, as though weighing her words carefully. “If you don’t mind.”

Nesta’s heart pounded in her chest. She felt the walls of her apartment pressing in, felt the weight of every empty bottle, every wasted night, all of it hanging heavy in the air. She wanted to slam the door in Taryn’s face, tell her to leave, but she couldn’t. Something held her there.

Taryn didn’t look disgusted or appalled by the mess—she didn’t even flinch when her eyes scanned the room. Her expression remained the same: calm, open, unbothered. Nesta almost wished she would say something—anything—that would make this easier. But instead, she just waited, quiet and patient.

Nesta swallowed, her voice coming out almost a whisper. “How did you know where I lived?”

Taryn didn’t seem surprised by the question. She simply shrugged, her eyes never leaving Nesta’s. “You’re not as hard to find as you think,” she said, her tone light, teasing. “I pay attention.”

The words hung in the air, and Nesta felt a strange, uncomfortable shiver run down her spine. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was that made her so hesitant, so conflicted. Was it the fact that Taryn had found her so easily? Or was it the way she made Nesta feel—like someone cared, like someone was actually willing to step into her mess without turning away in disgust?

Nesta didn’t answer right away, her thoughts a tangle of confusion and something she couldn’t quite name. She should send Taryn away. She should shut the door, lock it, and forget this ever happened.

But then she felt herself step aside, the door opening just enough for Taryn to slip past her. A part of Nesta wanted to stop her, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“Fine,” Nesta muttered under her breath, almost to herself. “You can come in.”

Taryn gave a quiet nod, stepping into the dingy apartment with a grace that almost made it feel less suffocating. She didn’t comment on the state of the place, didn’t judge Nesta as she thought she would. Instead, she simply walked in, her presence calm, her eyes taking in the room without speaking. It was as though she had seen it all before.

Nesta closed the door behind them, the weight of the decision settling heavily in her chest, but she didn’t regret it. Not yet.

Taryn’s voice was soft but certain as she glanced around the cramped apartment, her eyes landing on Nesta. ��Are you hungry?”

Nesta almost wanted to laugh at the question. Hunger felt like an impossible thing to focus on—so distant, so unimportant compared to everything else swirling in her head. She shook her head, her voice dismissive as she replied, “No.”

But as soon as the word left her mouth, her stomach growled—loud, unrelenting, betraying her in a way that made her wish she could disappear into the floor. She flushed, embarrassed, but tried to hide it by crossing her arms tightly over her chest, looking away.

Taryn didn’t miss it. Her gaze softened, a small, knowing smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Alright then,” she said, as though it were no surprise. “I’ll make something. You look like you could use it.”

Nesta wanted to protest, wanted to tell her she didn’t need anything, but Taryn had already turned toward the kitchen before she could voice another word. Nesta stood frozen for a moment, watching her. She didn’t know why Taryn had decided to stay, why she seemed so determined to take care of her when Nesta had been doing nothing but pushing everyone away. The kitchen was barely big enough to be called a kitchen, just a small counter and a stove with cabinets that had seen better days. Nesta knew there wasn’t much in the cupboards. A few cans of vegetables, some dried pasta, maybe a bottle of sauce if she was lucky. She hadn’t made much of an effort to restock lately.

She rubbed her face, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling on her shoulders. Why does she care?

Taryn, though, didn’t seem bothered by the small, threadbare apartment. She walked over to the counter with a calm, purposeful air, and as she started pulling out ingredients, her movements were fluid, practiced—like someone who had done this countless times before. It made Nesta feel awkward in contrast, as if her own existence in this space wasn’t enough. She had no idea why Taryn would want to be here, but a part of her was too tired to question it.

Nesta moved toward the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as she watched Taryn work. Her mouth felt dry, her stomach protesting as the scent of something delicious began to fill the air. It wasn’t much, just a simple meal, but the warmth of it felt like something she hadn’t experienced in far too long.

Taryn turned to Nesta, her hands steady and sure as she set a plate in front of her. The dish was simple—scrambled eggs with soft, buttery potatoes and a side of fresh herbs sprinkled over the top. There was something rustic about it, nothing extravagant, but the way the steam rose from the plate and the rich smell of the food made Nesta’s stomach growl again.

She looked at the plate, unsure how to react. It wasn’t much, but it was the kind of thing that someone would make for you because they cared, not because they were obligated. The warm yellow of the eggs, the golden crisp of the potatoes, and the fresh green herbs dotted on top—it all seemed so foreign to her now. She hadn’t felt like she deserved something like this in ages.

Taryn stood back, watching Nesta’s expression carefully, her eyes calm but knowing. “Eat,” she said quietly, her voice soft but firm. “You need it.”

Nesta hesitated for a moment, still unsure of what to make of it. She didn’t want to accept kindness. She didn’t want to let anyone see her weakness. But as she sat there, the hunger that had been gnawing at her for days surged forward, her body demanding attention. She slowly picked up the fork, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought a bite to her mouth.

The food was simple, yes, but the warmth of it was like a balm to the raw, hollow ache inside her. It was comforting, in a way she hadn’t realized she needed, and despite herself, she found herself taking another bite.

Taryn, who had sat across from her with her own plate in hand, simply watched her with a quiet understanding. There was no judgment in her gaze, only something that felt like patience, like she knew this was just a small step.

But it felt bigger to Nesta—like a crack in the wall she’d built around herself.

As Nesta set the fork down, her stomach full but still tight with an uncomfortable mix of hunger and unease, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The silence between them stretched for a moment, and just as she thought she might breathe easier, Taryn’s voice broke through it, soft but unyielding.

“I know what happened,” she said, her gaze unwavering, eyes steady on Nesta.

The words hit her like a blow to the chest, and immediately, Nesta’s stomach twisted. Her breath caught in her throat, the sudden rush of nausea threatening to push everything she’d just eaten right back up. She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe. Her pulse raced, her skin feeling too tight, too warm.

The last thing she wanted was to talk about it. She didn’t want to relive it, didn’t want anyone to know the ugly things she’d buried in her past, things she hadn’t even let herself acknowledge until now. She should have seen it coming—Taryn was perceptive, too observant for her own good. But hearing those words from her lips was like standing on the edge of a cliff, with the wind howling in her ears, ready to push her over.

Her hands shook as she gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady herself. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nesta forced out, her voice strained, cracking under the weight of the lie.

But Taryn didn’t push her. Instead, she sat back in her chair, quiet, waiting for Nesta to meet her gaze, her expression calm, almost unreadable. The silence stretched, and Nesta felt her chest tighten, her heart pounding painfully. She couldn’t even look at her—couldn’t stand the thought of being seen so completely, so raw.

She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to disappear. Instead, all she could do was breathe, shallow and quick, as the room seemed to close in around her.

“I’m not going to force you to talk,” Taryn said softly, her voice gentle but firm, like she knew Nesta needed that space.

Taryn’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it felt like a lifeline in the thick, suffocating silence. “It’s okay,” she said, her tone steady and warm. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”

And then something cracked inside Nesta.

The words weren’t anything special—they didn’t offer a solution or make any promises. But the way Taryn said them, with such quiet understanding and no expectation, it was enough. It was enough to tear away the facade Nesta had been holding together for so long, enough to let the tears fall. She wasn’t ready for it, didn’t even know why it was happening, but suddenly there was no stopping it.

Her breath hitched, the dam inside her breaking, and before she could even think, the tears spilled over. She didn’t make a sound at first, just blinked rapidly, trying to suppress the feeling of weakness, of being so exposed. But it didn’t help. The tears kept coming, faster now, like a storm she couldn’t control.

And still, Taryn didn’t say anything more. She didn’t reach for Nesta or try to comfort her in some grand, overbearing way. She just sat there, still and patient, letting Nesta cry, letting her feel what she’d been holding inside for far too long. There was no judgment in her eyes, no pity. Just a quiet acceptance, like she understood, like she knew that sometimes, it wasn’t about fixing things—it was just about being there.

Nesta wiped at her eyes roughly, but the tears didn’t stop. She felt embarrassed, humiliated even, but something in her—some part that had been broken for so long—was unraveling. She hadn’t expected it, hadn’t known she needed it, but the simple act of letting someone in, letting someone see the cracks, felt like a release. It felt like freedom.

Taryn didn’t rush her, didn’t try to say anything else. She just stayed silent, her gaze soft but unwavering, like she was giving Nesta the time she needed, even if Nesta didn’t know how much time that would be.

She just let her cry.

And Nesta didn’t stop.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites

[digitalcactusblog]

Top 5 drinks? ☕

i am about to confess. i am a terminal water-drinker SKFJHG i'm not super into sweet things and don't mind the taste of just plain water? so i don't often have any beverages at all, so this list is about to be the most hyper-specific list of beverages known to man 😂

hot water: i would argue this counts as a drink, because most people i know don't drink hot water, i'm just very chinese lol. it's nice! feels less shocking to the system than cold water. i do not like cold water.

taro bubble tea: truly the most bestest of bubble teas. it's purple! it has edible tadpoles! yum. idk unpopular opinion though, every time i get it from a place where they actually serve legitimate taro inside their taro bubble tea, i hate it. i want the artificial stuff that comes in powder form, that is probably like 90% sugar by weight

there's this corn juice that T&T sells that's really good. is also probably 90% sugar by weight. corn!

okay i have to admit that i do like the starbucks coffee cappuccino frappuccino whatever stuff that comes in the sealed glass bottles that you can get. again, definitely mostly sugar and milk by weight (i am not a hardcore coffee person. i'm not even a coffee person really), but they taste really good. i haven't had one in years and i'm not about to break that streak now! but i do remember really liking it.

another asian beverage, there's this pineapple beer stuff that is mostly non-alcoholic (the alcohol % is super low) that is really good. ALSO most DEFINITELY 90% sugar by weight, i swear it tastes kinda like caramel and nothing like pineapple. still good tho!

[rust-official]

This time round trying emacs is different because I'm using doom (at the brilliant recommendation of one of my partners, mentioned above), which is kind of like one of the neovim distributions but for emacs. Good defaults that match what a 25 year vim veteran wants, enough customizability to fit to what I need. Like any massively complex piece of software, it's taken a lot of getting used to, and there's always more to learn. The doom docs say that learning emacs is an adventure, and I agree.

org mode is cool! There are some plugins that simulate it in (neo)vim of course, but nothing really manages to match org. The more I learn about org, the more I love it--it is always the marquee feature which gets me playing with emacs every time I've wanted to try it. Of course, the most basic features for outlining are state of the art, even among commercial outliners like omnioutliner, everyone knows that. But it also supports cool things like tables with integrated calculator support and exports to every format you can think of and and and. org's manual is hundreds of pages and it can do so, so much. And it's just one package!

Continuing from the above, neovim can't have a plugin that does everything org mode does, for a variety of reasons. It's too mature and has too many people working on it for a few loosely-associated plugin writers to be able to accomplish the same thing. Beyond this, even neovim just doesn't have the same extensibility that emacs does. Most of neovim is still written in C with a thin layer of lua for extensions, whereas the emacs philosophy is a small core in C and the rest in elisp--a lot like atom or, more recently, visual studio code--but using a real language, of course, and not JS.

evil mode is a far better approximation of vim than I was expecting. Just about every other vi mode falters and has bugs / missing features. I've not run into any such limitations or bugs with evil, again probably due to its popularity compared to the vi modes in those other tools, which are often an afterthought (or just removed / dropped entirely, like in the new repl for python 3.13).

The emacs philosophy is as it was 30 years ago when I first tried learning it: it still expects you to open the editor when logging in and never close it. As such it has better tools for managing lots of open buffers (I particularly like ibuffer, it mostly approximates vim's bufexplorer plugin, but it's missing a few things from vim or I don't know about them yet; will be looking at the manual).

There's seemingly a package for everything, and often a few different ones for the same thing. The "emacs is my operating system" mantra makes a lot of sense when viewed from this angle. Lots of things have good documentation, too, and of course, as I said above, so much more is possible in emacs than neovim.

doom's out of the box LSP support seems nicer than neovim's. I'm sure I could get similar results with configuring neovim, perhaps with more plugins or config, but things just feel more robust right from the start. I still need more time to evaluate this, as I've spent the least amount of time editing code. Mostly I've been focusing on editing documents with org mode and the occasional dabbling with magit for doing git stuff. magit is quite nice and very mature; I know it'll work quite well for managing code repos once I'm more comfortable with emacs as a code editor. I have lots of custom keybindings for neovim's LSP support that I'll need to relearn if I want to use emacs as my code editor.

One criticism I do have is that none of the emacs terminal emulators I've tried work well with vi keybindings in my shell; when I press esc to enter normal mode in the shell, the buffer for the terminal emulator goes into evil's normal mode. There may be a way to fix it, but I've not looked into it yet.

Am I going to switch? I don't know. I'm giving it an honest try, a more honest try than I have in the past, and having someone to ask questions is proving absolutely critical. I can't answer this question right now. Maybe? I cannot say how helpful evil has been with this. Modal editing is how my brain works and I don't think I'd be able to learn non-modal editing.

Given how @neovim-official hates me (see here) I have started learning @emacs-unofficial , using @doom-official and hence @emacs-evil-mode.

(this is not entirely a shitpost, one of my partners has been showing me around, largely for org mode but I've always been curious. Back when I got my start with Unix/Linux in the late 90s on a shell provider, emacs was the first editor I tried, but it was so slow to start back then that I switched to vim. How things would've been different for me if computers were faster when I started!)

[cerealbishh]

another great outer range interview for isabel! such interesting questions were asked, like what it's like working with lewis, things she's learned and struggled with in doing this show, and her scenes with a specific person... please check it out, if you dare!

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

for the 'why wouldn't date them'

charles, hawkeye, trapper

and i think you might be into twin peaks? if so, dale cooper and donna hayward

whichever ones you want to do :)

Ahhhhhh omg thank you for all of these I want to do them ALL but let's go backwards.

Donna Hayward

Ok so the thing is I AM into Twin Peaks but it's been a while since I've seen it and I tried to watch The Return but I was too stupit to understand much less enjoy it :( sowwy. So I would be dating my own flawed incomplete interpretation of a person, really. Typical Twin Peaks. 

Anyways I love Donna! I think we have similar personalities and stuff. In all brutal honesty I think if I were in her situation with a friend like Laura I’d have done similar things. Also yeah maybe her actions did lead a man to suicide but that was NOT her fault. I think the only three things that would prevent an attempt at a relationship here are 

1) The obvious. Her taste in men = atrocious. In all the rest of these hypotheticals where the character is already canonically in a relationship or has feelings for another character I’m just like yeah the more the merrier but if Donna insists on inviting her insufferable ass boyfriend into the mix I could NOT fucking do it I’m sorry. 

2) This girl is not ready for a relationship yet after All That god damn. But then again neither am I so maybe that balances out. We would need to spend some time as support group buddies just hugging and crying a lot before even considering a date. 

3) It is unlikely we would ever interact as I am never setting foot in that town ever in my life are you kidding me. Donna is super pretty in both her incarnations but I’m sorry I don’t think any pussy pops severely enough for me to risk going to fucking doorknob hell or some shit.

Dale Cooper

Ignore everything I said in that last paragraph. I change my mind. I forgot my beautiful autism creature husband is here. I would risk it all for a date with Dale Cooper and so would all who know and perceive the truth. AND he’s got two hot girlfriends with him at least one of whom is ALSO an autism creature??? Sign me the FUCK up for this polycule IMMEDIATELY. “Oh but OP what about the horrors” I don’t even fucking care it’s fine. Dale can have little an evil doppelganger. As a treat.

Still there are some problems:

1) Dale is an FBI agent and Harry is a cop. Booooooo!!!! But maybe if Annie and Caroline and I unionize we can force them to quit their jobs. 

2) Unclear if I would be forced to join the Black Lodge Horror Vision Rotation along with Annie and Caroline. Boring and time consuming task and unlike Laura you don’t even get to do a Big Scream.

3) I personally actually don’t like pie or coffee at all :( I’m sorry babygirl I understand if this is a deal breaker. 

Trapper McIntyre 

You know that “golden retriever boyfriend” joke? Trapper is like THE golden retriever boyfriend to me. Which I mean as an absolute compliment! Golden retrievers are friendly, helpful, adorable, lovable dogs. I am always up to pet a golden retriever.

But the thing is, I would never get one myself. They’re just a bit too big, bit too much energy, bit too messy, and anyways I prefer cats. No hate, no judgment, just a series of tiny preferences. Not into jocks, not into casual no-strings-attached type relationships, not super into kids, you know how it is. Boring and petty answer but I just feel like this adorable happy-go-lucky goldie deserves the PERFECT forever home and obviously he’s one of the most popular of all the dogs at the Mashblr shelter so I know he’ll get adopted super fast. So I can turn my attention to the miserable ass overbred old cat in the corner <3

Hawkeye Pierce

Oh, Hawkeye. I just don’t think so. Idk what’s wrong with me but I have to work to see Hawkeye as like. A dateable entity in my mind. He’s our little scrunkly! It’d be weird to date a scrunkly. BUT maybe I’ve just been overexposed to him purely by dint of being in the fandom he’s the main character of, because objectively I DO find Mr. Alda’s portrayal of him in certain scenes to be Attractive (TM), and seeing clips of his charisma and charm and humor and all that good handsome stuff is literally what got me to check out the show in the first place! Man. What happened. Hmm. 

I think one issue is that scenes where he’s explicitly trying to be Romantic and/or Seductive have just never done it for me. Like comparing Hawkeye’s lovey scenes with Kyung Soon to Charles’ with Martine, there’s no contest in how they make me feel. To me, Hawkeye is honestly at his most appealing when he’s radiating Friend Energy, which is why his casual relationships actually work really well IMO; you feel like he’s truly a great pal to the nurses he hooks up with. This is also, I think, one of Piercintyre’s great strengths as a ship, because Hawkeye and Trapper both have amazing Friend Energy and then their natural compatibility makes that bleed seamlessly into sweet romantic vibes. And to be clear I would LOVE to be in a Friends To Lovers relationship too but unfortunately I am cringely obsessed with loveydovey romance in a way I’m not sure Hawkeye is even capable of. Plus there’s also just the fact that I’m a shy waiting til marriage person and I suck at banter and yeah it’s just not working. In conclusion neither Hawkeye nor Trapper should date me they should date each other!! But we knew that :P

THAT CUNT

There are 10000000 reasons not to date Charles. But I will be doing it anyways ^_^ Peace and love on planet earth <3

Anyways I’m not bringing up his Problematicness as a reason here because I didn’t bring it up for anyone else and nobody noticed, so why should it be any different with him. Like no obviously I would not date this dumbfuck racist but I also would not date a guy who thinks it’s a funny prank to make a woman think she’s being sexually assaulted. I also for that matter would not date a guy who works with the dumbfuck racist and is like aw, ya know what, he’s not that bad really :) the second they have a chance to have a bonding moment. I guess I have decided to be a buzzkill about that forever now btw sorry :( oh well 

But ok no real talk I would Not date Charles unless one very specific condition is met, which is that I have whatever magic stardust they sprinkled on his single-episode love interests before they put them in the story that made him be utterly besotted with them, because more than any other character on the show, it seems, the difference between Regular Charles and Charles In Love is so hysterically huge??? Like fuck. My dudes. We’ve done it. We found the one villain who actually does do a complete 180 and starts trying to act right as soon as a girl takes pity on him enough to look at him twice. (Disclaimer: I haven’t seen Ain’t Love Grand yet I’m sorryyyyyyyy) He’s so ~romantic~ and it’s like catnip to me unfortunately. :\ The total opposite of what I said about Hawkeye up there. Offers a girl his stupid little teacup and recites poetry at her. Unbelievable. Did anyone ever think about the fact that maybe I would like to be offered a teacup and recited poetry at. No. You all only think about yourselves.  

Like even though objectively the way he nukes his relationship with Martine was hurtful to both of them, he’s so Tender the whole time it’s insane. She turned him into her pauvre petit miaou miaou overnight. I want that power so fucking bad I NEED that power so fucking bad. Say it with me everyone. I Could Fix Him. (”But OP Martine and Donna DIDN’T fix him he still left them both and never mentioned them again?” Yes but don’t worry they were just loosening the lid on his jar a little bit. I’ll get him open you’ll see. He’s gonna be soooo well trained when I’m done I’ll make him apologize to Maxwell and everything. He won’t even need the shock collar after a few weeks.)

But yeah if I have to like, try to appeal to him on my own it’s not fucking happening. I have no desire to hear the equivalent of a DOS deepfake hologram that has become evil due to being trained on text scraped from youtube comments tell me I’m ugly and stupid, which is exactly what would happen. Up til now I’ve sidestepped the issue that I do not think any of these people would give me the time of day (except Maxwell who would take pity on me probably because he is sososo Good) but I cannot ignore how much Charles just would Not like me. I don’t know how the selfshipper community does it they’re braver than any fucking US marine over there fr. Charles would look at me like I was a gross little bug on the ground and I can’t escape it. Oh well. Who needs him. Where’s your sister you dipshit I’m about to GET IT

[maelancoli]

Writing Intimacy

i often see writers sharing a sentiment of struggling with writing kiss scenes which honestly bleeds into other portrayals of physical intimacy. i see it a lot in modernized styles of writing popularized by the recent trend in publishing to encourage short, choppy sentences and few adverbs, even less descriptive language. this makes intimacy come across awkward, like someone writing a script or clumsy recounting of events rather than a beautiful paragraph of human connection.

or just plane horniness. but hey, horny doesn't have to be mutually exclusive with poetic or sensual.

shallow example: they kissed desperately, tongues swirling and she moaned. it made her feel warm inside.

in depth example: she reached for the other woman slowly and with a small measure of uncertainty. the moment her fingers brushed the sharp, soft jaw of her companion, eliza's hesitance slid away. the first kiss was gentle when she finally closed the distance between them. she pressed her lips lightly to gabriella's in silent exploration. a tender question. gabriella answered by meeting her kiss with a firmer one of her own. eliza felt the woman's fingers curling into her umber hair, fingernails scraping along her scalp. everything inside eliza relaxed and the nervousness uncoiled from her gut. a warm buzz of energy sunk through her flesh down to the very core of her soul. this was right. this was always where she needed to be.

the first complaint i see regards discomfort in writing a kiss, feeling like one is intruding on the characters. the only way to get around this is to practice. anything that makes you uncomfortable in writing is something you should explore. writing is at its best when we are pushing the envelope of our own comfort zones. if it feels cringy, if it feels too intimate, too weird, too intrusive, good. do it anyway! try different styles, practice it, think about which parts of it make you balk the most and then explore that, dissect it and dive into getting comfortable with the portrayal of human connection.

of course the biggest part comes to not knowing what to say other than "they kissed" or, of course, the tried and true "their lips crashed and their tongues battled for dominance" 😐. so this is my best advice: think beyond the mouth. okay, we know their mouths are mashing. but what are their hands doing? are they touching one another's hair? are they scratching or gripping desperately at one another? are they gliding their hands along each other's body or are they wrapping their arms tightly to hold each other close? do they sigh? do they groan? do they relax? do they tense? are they comfortable with each other or giddy and uncertain? is it a relief, or is it bringing more questions? is it building tension or finally breaking it?

get descriptive with the emotions. how is it making the main character/pov holder feel? how are they carrying those emotions in their body? how do they feel the desire in their body? desire is not just felt below the belt. it's in the gut, it's in the chest, it's in the flushing of cheeks, the chills beneath the skin, the goosebumps over the surface of the flesh. everyone has different pleasure zones. a kiss might not always lead desire for overtly sexual touches. a kiss might lead to the desire for an embrace. a kiss might lead to the impulse to bite or lick at other areas. a kiss could awaken desire to be caressed or caress the neck, the shoulder, the back, the arms etc. describe that desire, show those impulses of pleasure and affection.

of course there is the tactile. what does the love interest taste like? what do they smell like? how do they kiss? rough and greedy? slow and sensual? explorative and hesitant? expertly or clumsily? how does it feel to be kissed by them? how does it feel to kiss them?

i.e. examine who these individuals are, what their motives and feelings are within that moment, who they are together, what it looks like when these two individuals come together. a kiss is not about the mouth. it's about opening the door to vulnerability and desire in one's entire body and soul.

[rosesonbreeze]

Anna's cheeks are pink with girlish intrigue. Lips pursed to keep from swooning like a teenager, because the star player is taking off his shirt. She doesn't fully understand why it all feels so new. Anna shared the bed of many men before, as early as her sweet sixteen in a fashion show in Miami. Or was it for those reasons, maturing and being sexualized so young, that Anna breezed past these more wholesome experiences? It's a question for another time, with another person; her therapist, maybe her brother's dog on her next visit. For now...

"I think you're doing just fine." Anna muses, blinking rapidly when the entirety of his chest is shown off to her. Athletes and their fits... Anna may be a model, conventional in her body image, but there's no substitute for someone who's used theirs to win at a sport. His hard pecs tempt Anna closer, small hands against his chest. Standing just above him, looking down at his blush down his neck. It's a sweet comfort, knowing she's not the only one filled in awe with this newness.

"Here is good..." She trails off, admiring his discipline. Most men gave direction, and when they took, it was often for their own pleasure. Anna comes closer, deciding it's best to start here. A knee lifted to sit on the edge, before Anna's straddling his lap with her body. Their warm bodies pressed together, like so many times before. She kisses him like a personal vocation, resplendent and passionate. A way of expressing the more eager, impatient parts of her desire that fall second to how she feels about him. A guiding hand reaching for his, letting it slide up her slip.

"Touch me." she says in between their lips, daring in the way she guides his hand on her ass. "Anywhere. Everywhere." She'll sing it like a song, more than her consent, it's her need as the driving force of her words. The very one that makes her wrought with growing heat. "Promise I won't bite." Not unless he wanted her to.

It's not that Aiden stumbles closely behind, and he definitely isn't stomping like he would on the way to the pitch, but there's a 'following' sort of quality to his movements as they head toward his room. 'Together?' Yes, but also kind of no. He's content to give her space for her little procession, to remain wordless and simply enjoy the way that she sways her hips, the confidence with which she leads them on. Even when they're finally in their intended space, he doesn't take control, neither grabs her nor pushes her in any way.

Because that's not what they're about.

One-night stands and situationships are rife with heat and passion, a rush to reach peaks of pleasure. Anna and Aiden may not have a name for what they're engaging in— this experience that's certainly lasted more than a single night of flirtations — but if there's anything that the past few weeks have showed him, it's that there can still be plenty of heat and passion here... And joy, and comfort, and laughter. Aiden could be alluring in that stoic and tragic sort of way, but why would he be, if Anna's everything but?

"You sure?" His fingers dip under his collar and pull. "I didn't prepare anything for you." Clearly, seeing as how he doesn't have anything remotely scandalous under there. Far from a model who exudes sex appeal, he's a guy who lives simply in spite of being at the center of luxury. Does that luxury include unlimited access to the finest fitness facilities and the reassurance that he'll never be for a lack of proper nutrition? Yes, but Aiden still keeps it modest... He's got the faint blush running down to his freckled shoulders to prove it.

"So..." Is it too bold to take the initiative of pulling down his joggers? He sits at the edge of the bed and thinks not, especially with the direction they're headed. Less mess, less stress, and anyway he's always thought that he has a great ass. But one wouldn't expect that specific kind of confidence, not when he's light with his touch, reaching for her hips, and not when he's looking up at her with curious and (mostly-)innocent eyes. "Where do you want me?"

[shawtuzi]

thinking about choso and the succubus that just won’t leave him alone :((

“p-please i can’t take any—hah! a-anymore,” choso sobbed, his fingernails digging roughly into the fat of your hips. you’ve been riding him for the past hour and a half and he was sure by this point he was shooting blanks. you’ve pulled four orgasms out of him and frighteningly enough you were showing no signs of stopping.

“i’m not done yet though cho,” you giggled, leaning down to press your lips against his. choso whimpered when your tongue, that was slightly longer than the average humans, slipped into his mouth. you could tell help but smile into the kiss when you felt him get harder inside of you.

choso’s eyes rolled into the back of his head when your tongue swirled around his, his mouth opening wider to give you more access. ‘what a slut’ he heard your voice echo in his head, arousal building up in his tummy. you abruptly pulled away from the kiss, a line of spit connecting your mouths.

“o-oh!” choso’s abs clenched when you lifted off of his cock, a loud squelching sound following. “pretty…y-you’re so pretty,” his voice was shaky as he praised you, tears of awe and overstimulation brimming his eyes. you didn’t say anything, instead you kissed your way down his chest, stopping when you reached his pelvic area.

choso heard your voice in his head once more, nodding at your question. ‘you want it?’ you had asked, the seduction in your voice as tempting as ever. choso’s back arched off the bed when he felt your tongue slither around the base of his dick. now this was new for him.

your tongue was able to wrap around almost every inch of him, massaging his most sensitive parts. you the felt the veins on the underside throb rapidly against your tongue, he was already so so close.

“s-stop—wait, w-wait no keep going, no n-no wait stoppp,” choso sobbed, tears now steaming down his reddened cheeks. he gasped finally at the loss of contact, his chest heaving rapidly. “w-why’d you stop?” he whimpered, his bottom lip pushing into a pout as if he wasn’t just begging and crying you to stop :((

choso jumped slightly when your wings expanded, shielding both of you from the light of his bedside lamp. “from this point forward i wan’ you to keep those pretty lips shut, got it?” he heard your honey smooth voice say firmly. choso nodded quickly, “yes, y-yes i’m sorry. no more talking i promise.” such an obedient lil thing.

choso’s mouth dropped open, a loud, pornographic moan belting from his chest. you focused your attention on his weeping tip, moaning at the sweet yet salty taste that was him. you toyed with his balls in your hand, giving them a hearty squeeze—

“o-oh f-fuckkk!”

you pulled off his tip with an obscene slurping sound, “cmon cho gimme all your cum. be a good boy and give it to me.” choso mewled, his thighs now trembling rather violently.

“i-i can’t it’s too much i don’t think i—”

“nonsense. i know you got one more in you for me pretty boy,” you cooed, sloppily kissing the inside of his thigh before sinking you teeth into the soft, sweaty flesh. choso let out a loud cry, the whites of his eyes showing before he came. hard.

“f-fuck!”

choso jolted away, a thin sheen of sweat covering his chest and face. his palms were sweaty and his heart was beating a million miles a second—the fuck happened to him?

he turned on his bedside lamp and looked around the entire room, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he had been looking for. his lips turned into a frown when he noticed his boxers had felt sticky. “again?” he sighed in defeat once his eyes landed on his messy boxers and very hard dick.

he lightly touched his cock over his boxers, immediately whimpering at how sensitive he was. “i’ll be quick, r-real quick,” he let out a sigh of relief when his hand began to palm at his boxers, he internally cringed when he felt how wet and sticky they were. his nostrils flared once he finally reached his hand in his boxers, gripping his throbbing cock with need.

his eyes trailed from his dick to his thigh, his brows furrowing when he noticed a bite mark???

while still stroking his cock he lightly touched the bite mark, his breath hitching when it actually felt good? why did it feel so good?

“hah! o-oh wow,” choso breathlessly chuckled, his hips bucking up when he pressed down on the mark once more. oh how he desperately wished he had something to fuck right now. his eyes fluttered shut, his mind trying remember the very lewd dream that had him so worked up.

as choso fucked his fist desperately you hid in the darkest corner of his room, watching him with lustful eyes. choso was always such a needy lil thing, if he had even a semi hard on he couldn’t contain the urge to relieve himself—that’s why you liked him so much and ventured into his dreams every night.

your lips lifted into a smirk when you heard him cum with a needy whine, white ropes on cum shooting onto his toned chest. he didn’t stop there though no no, he kept going, milking his dick until he was writhing in overstimulation. what a slutty man he was.

“m’still hard,” choso mumbled, poking the tip of his leaking cock. his lip caught between his teeth, his nose scrunching when he wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing softly. “one more s-should—mmph! do it,” he sighed, now slowly stroking his dick, a wet shlicking noise echoing throughout the room.

oh you were in for a real treat tonight.